Splintered Suns

by Michael Cobley

  “Who’s going up as scout?” Pyke said.

  Ancil raised a hand, jammed his blazing torch into a shoulder loop, then grabbed a head-height rung and began to climb. When he reached the deck above he stepped off the ladder and called back down:

  “Nothing here but a small room, Chief, with one door pushed shut and jammed from the other side. There’s also a narrow companionway leading up a fair distance—my torch beam can’t project to the very top. I can feel a flow of cool air, though.”

  “Okay, Ans, scout ahead a bit further,” Pyke said. “Just find out where it goes then report back. No solo missions from hell!”

  “Hearing you loud and clear, Chief!”

  And he was gone, step-climbing, footsteps receding. As Pyke gazed thoughtfully at the space where Ancil had been a moment before, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the Sendrukan scientist, Lieutenant-Doctor Ustril.

  “Hey, Doc, everything okay?”

  “I am discontented, Captain. Since our disembarkation I have been unable to make full use of even the inadequate equipment I have been carrying, and sometimes dragging.” The corridor was just tall enough to accommodate her height and even in the half-light of the stopover lamp Pyke could see that her usual composure was absent. “During our progress I have been using the manual proximity scanner on our surroundings and I have detected notable variances.”

  “You mean the way metal looks more corroded than it did back in the other wreck?”

  “Yes, and scanner data confirms my suspicions—something is affecting the anti-entropic qualities of structural metals, which certainly would weaken resistance to natural decay. If we could only stop for half an hour I could …”

  “Sorry, Doc, but we’re in hostile territory and I’m not so keen on any extended delays when we’re this closed in. Have patience for now, that’s all I ask.”

  She seemed unpersuaded. “I’ve seen that you usually ask for more than patience.”

  Pyke wanted to come back with a witty riposte but she had turned away to ask Moleg something. He gave a small nod, thinking that tolerance was a virtue of some kind as he leaned against the corridor bulkhead for a rest. Apart from the conversation between Ustril and Moleg, the general mood was one of muted, strung-out weariness combined with the tension of trying to anticipate unknown dangers.

  I guess a different captain would use this pause in proceedings to come out with a terrific, morale-boosting speech full of hearty, moving phrases and the like. Me? I think I’d rather have a game of cards.

  He fumbled through his waist pouches in search of a deck but came up empty-handed. He was having a rummage around in Ancil’s goody bag, when the voice of the man himself came over on the headset, but only on Pyke’s channel.

  “Hey, Chief.”

  “Okay, Ans, find anything?”

  “Oh yes, definitely. Found something, all right. That companionway goes up to a small platform between the inner and outer hulls and from there a short ladder goes further up to a kind of ledge on the outside of the hull. Takes some careful sidling to follow it round before it comes to what must have been an observation lounge or something, an oval recess that someone made into a camp a while ago.”

  Pyke frowned. “Everything okay? Safe to come up?”

  “There’s no dangers, Captain, but I think you should send the Lieutenant-Doctor up first.”

  That made him stop. “Really? Because?”

  Ancil’s voice went low and sombre. “It’s just that there’s a body up here, remains really, that I think she ought to see before the others.”

  A body? Pyke thought. A Sendrukan body, perhaps?

  He was suddenly aware that everyone, including Ustril, was watching him. He nodded, matter-of-fact and relaxed. “Yeah, sure, Ans, we can do that.” He turned to the others. “Ancil’s found a place up top, could be just the spot for a rest. Doc, why don’t you head up there first—give you a chance to start setting up your equipment?”

  The Sendrukan was surprised for a moment, then nodded and approached the ladder. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Dervla, you’ll be next, then Kref …” Ustril was climbing up into the deck above as Dervla came over. Pyke put a hand on her arm, making her pause while the Sendrukan started up the steep companionway. Then he leaned in close to mutter in her ear, “Take it slowly, let her get a good way ahead of you …”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.” As she began her climb, Pyke beckoned the Henkayan over. “Nice and easy, Kref, no rush.”

  Kref nodded, checked over the fastenings of his hefty combat jacket, then approached the ladder and started upwards.

  Moleg gave Pyke a narrow look. “Is there some kind of problem waiting for us up above?”

  He shook his head, which turned into a half-shrug. “Ancil found a body,” he said, voice low. “Sendrukan.”

  “Ah—so she did have a companion.”

  “What tipped you off?” asked Pyke.

  “That base of hers just didn’t feel like a solo hideout.”

  Pyke gave a nod then, with Moleg bringing up the rear, he grabbed a rung and followed Kref.

  Ustril had energetically ascended the ladder and steps and by the time Dervla switched from ladder to companionway at the deck above, Ustril was gone from view. Dervla commenced her ascent, deliberately stomping up the steps, breathing heavily the cool dry air. She was about to start up the last ladder section when she heard a faint cry from above, from outside.

  Many times since joining the crew of the Scarabus, Dervla had found herself having to deal with Brannan Pyke’s hunches, guesses, gut feelings and sundry on-the-hoof improvisations. Outcomes could vary wildly between inspired genius and shambolic trainwreck, yet no matter how botched the upshot or how enraged the client, an absurd kind of luck would kick in and pluck Pyke and the crew from seemingly inescapable doom. No one ever mentioned this rare good fortune but Dervla could see that the others were aware of it, at least to the point where it fostered a certain swagger.

  But the thing about Pyke was that, for all his obvious egocentricity, he could still surprise you with a quiet word and advice which managed to suggest a sensitivity at odds with that devil-may-care exterior.

  Some of those thoughts passed through Dervla’s mind as she continued doggedly up the last stretch of ladder. The cry had sounded at first like some kind of creature, but she started to wonder if it had come from the Sendrukan Ustril, which inevitably gave rise to a knot of anxiety. The air was cold and sand gritted on every rung as she climbed, quickly reaching the top where she emerged from the cramped shaft. She’d clipped her torch to a shoulder loop so that a broad beam lit up a sandy makeshift platform wedged between the inner and outer hulls, high above the ground. Hardly any outer hull plating remained and through a spidery mesh of struts she could gaze out across an endless sea of desert shadows. From the platform a narrow walkway composed of assorted debris sloped up to what seemed to be the severed end of the shipwreck section. Dervla heard Kref’s heavy tread ascending the companionway below as she carefully picked her way up the curious pathway.

  A cold breeze soughed continuously through the skeletal hull, an eerie sound in the stretched-out silence. Up ahead, suddenly, a light came on, revealing the figure of Ancil pointing his torch at the walkway to guide her.

  “Did you hear something, just a short while ago?” she said.

  Ancil nodded gravely.” It was Ustril—she’s in the observation lounge, reading from something,” he said quietly as she drew near. “Will you try speaking to her? She’s ignoring anything I say.”

  “I’ll give it a shot, Ans.”

  The improvised footway turned a corner and by her torchbeam Dervla saw the broken, sheared edge of the wreck’s upper hull, a fringe of twisted beams and spars littered with a few hull plates and interspersed with weathered strips and ribbons of material, stirring sluggishly in the breeze. This was where the stern had torn away from the rest of the ship as it careered acros
s the skies of Ong so many centuries before. The narrow walkway continued along the wreck’s broken edge until it sloped down through the hull and into a short section of corridor which came to a doorless hatch. A glow was coming from somewhere off to the side, and the sound of something flapping in the breeze.

  She stepped through into what Ancil said was an observation lounge, a dark, semi-circular room in which someone had rigged up a camp of sorts. Scavenged lengths of cloth had been stretched over the top and across the open front, a shield against the elements, but strong winds must have torn away some ties, leaving loose corners to sway and flap. Shadows hid the edges, and overturned tables and shelves littered one half of the area. The pale glow came from behind a tall, grubby cloth partition. As Dervla approached, the end of a large camp bed came into view, revealing the robed legs and shod feet of a tall figure stretched out upon it.

  Ustril was seated on a stool next to the bed, not looking up from the grey, mummified, robe-clad remains of a Sendrukan male. Skeletal hands were clasped together on the chest, and a desiccated head rested within a hood. Ustril did not look up as Dervla cautiously went to the other side and knelt.

  “His name was Saljyn,” Ustril said levelly. “He was my betrothed. We had exchanged heartsongs before the High Academy passed the sentence of exile upon me—Saljyn did not have to accompany me … yet he did.” Her voice wavered. “We came to Ong nine years ago. It was the third of three planets which our research suggested as a possible resting place for an ancient vessel known as the Mighty Defender of the Arraveyne Heart …”

  Dervla’s eyes widened. “So you were already hunting for it when Mr. Van Graes hired you. Did he know? Did you tell him?”

  Ustril shook her head. “We led him to believe that our interest here was solely to do with the ruins and artefacts left behind by Ong’s original inhabitants. Our true purpose, our hope, was to retrieve artefacts that would conclusively prove the existence of the Mighty Defender, which had been considered no more than a child’s myth throughout Sendrukan history. Such an astonishing discovery would force the High Academy to rescind its sentence of exile, thus allowing us to return to the Hegemony.” She gazed down at her empty, long-fingered hands. “Van Graes’ interest in the lost vessel was very convenient, as were the funds he paid over to us. By the time he contacted us we had been on Ong for nearly four years with little to show for our efforts, and getting perilously close to complete destitution.”

  Dervla indicated the remains of her lover, Saljyn. “So you did find the ship after all,” she said, but Ustril shook her head.

  “I was never here, in this wreck,” she said. “With Van Graes’ support, we were able to travel to the other towns along the edge of the Great Desert, investigating old archives and questioning any nomads that would talk to us. After over a year of this we had amassed a dossier of reports, rumours and folk tales from which we deduced the likely location of a small vessel where there should be none. We hired an aircar in Cawl-Vesh and flew directly to the general area. Unfortunately, the weather patterns changed unexpectedly and sent a sandstorm blowing after us, roughly half an hour behind us.”

  “Where I come from,” Dervla said, “we call that Murphy’s Law.”

  The Sendrukan frowned. “Was this Murphy an archaeologist, too?”

  “He or she was probably an expert in random mishaps.” Dervla waved it away. “Not important. Carry on.”

  “Very well. We reached the location but then our portable equipment began suffering intermittent faults. We persisted with our search and actually found the craft, protruding from the side of a dune, but by then the storm was upon us. At close quarters it seemed about the size of a lifeboat and appeared to have been gutted. With our working analysers we were able to verify the very great age of the craft, and discovered the anti-entropic nature of its construction materials. The interior, however, was empty, scoured of anything that one might normally find in an abandoned wreck, stripped right back to the bulkheads, decking and hull. We realised, however, that with some work and refurbishment it would serve quite well as a forward base from which to make further explorations. We agreed that Saljyn would remain behind with a survival case while I flew the aircar back to our rented workshop in Cawl-Vesh to pick up the field camping packs and our sensory equipment. The sandstorm was rising in strength when I left but it caused my homeward flight no problems. And when I returned to the half-buried craft three hours later Saljyn was gone.”

  “No clues, no message?”

  “The sand around the craft seemed more disturbed but in the aftermath of the storm it was hard to be certain what had transpired. But, no, there was no message left for me.” Relived anguish was stark in Ustril’s features. “I searched, by aircar and on foot, but to no avail. Aircar hire is not cheap and my searches began to drain our funds, but when Van Graes learned of Saljyn’s disappearance he kindly made more money available and I carried on searching. I was tormented by despair and a strange anger—in three hours he could not have gone very far, yet not a clue could be found.”

  “Could he have been picked up by someone else in a vehicle?” Dervla said.

  “As well as being expensive, there are few aircars available for hire,” Ustril said. “The Cawl-Vesh service had no other craft out on lease at that time of the day. And a chance encounter in the immensity of the desert is highly unlikely.” She gazed sadly at the lifeless, cowled head on the camp bed. “Last year, while visiting a tundra-side village far to the south, I overheard an old woman talking about the Great Northern Desert. Some people call it the Sea of Sand, she said, not realising that it really is a sea, as vast and deadly and relentless as any of the oceans that other worlds have. It can hide entire armies or swallow nations whole, drown hills and valleys in sand with a single storm, bury them so deep that memory of them fades away. That was how I felt about Saljyn, that the desert had just reached out and wiped him from the face of the planet …”

  She opened a drawer in a small bedside table and took out a long, thin object. It looked like a bookmark at first, except that it was long and dark grey with slightly bulbous ends. Ustril lightly tossed it onto the robed cadaver’s chest.

  “That is Saljyn’s personal journal. In it he tells how a bot-swarm attacked him soon after I departed in the aircar. He just had time to grab the survival case and flee, heading for higher dunes to the east where he thought he’d spotted a rocky outcrop. That turned out to be the jagged spur which this whole wreck is resting against, and Saljyn was lucky enough to find shelter in the outer hull. At that time the wreck was only partially engulfed by the desert—as you can see it’s taken a few years for the winds to lay it all bare. I’m certain that it could be entombed again quite easily.”

  Ustril fell silent, her features sombre and frowning.

  “Does his journal speak of you?” Dervla said.

  “I haven’t had time to read it from start to finish, but he wrote all its entries for my eyes. He explains that he made this camp as a safe place to retreat to after his scavenging explorations of the wreck’s interior.” She stared intently at Dervla. “It is very dangerous inside—many of the corridors are blocked by strange tangled plants growing from the materials of the ship itself. Saljyn referred to it as the Steel Forest and said that it is inhabited by semi-sentient creatures who used to be the ship’s passengers and crew. He said that he spoke with some of them and became friendly with a few, after a fashion. They helped him with supplies and the layout of the corridors … ten months he managed to survive before he contracted a mysterious illness which left him increasingly weak and delirious. His last journal entry was just over a year ago.” She lowered her head, as if to hide tears, then picked up the long grey journal recorder. A pale-green screen lit up to show lines of text which Ustril scrolled through with a fingertip.

  “All the entries I read prove that he never forgot why we came to Ong, never stopped thinking about our purpose. He left behind this journal, full of notes and thoughts on what he discovered
inside the wreck. He also left me something else …” From her robe she produced a flat triangular tablet, the same shade of grey as the recorder, and with a glassy stalk running down the middle.

  “What is it?” Dervla said. “What does it do?”

  Holding the object with the point towards Dervla, Ustril said, “This.”

  There was a soundless flash down the thing’s glassy spine and suddenly Dervla found herself unable to move or speak. Ustril leaned forward, a serious expression on her large face.

  “It’s a defensive weapon. It creates a temporary stasis nimbus rather than a bubble—the effects are harmless and wear off after five or six minutes, plenty of time for me to leave you and enter the wreck.” She stood and moved swiftly to gather a few pieces of equipment into her backpack which she pulled on. “I’m sorry to have to visit duplicity upon you in this manner but it serves my immediate needs. My betrothed never forgot about the one thing, the single necessary thing that I need to reclaim my life, my place, my heritage—and he found it. A unique artefact of unsurpassable significance, and he left me directions as to its location.”

  Frozen in her kneeling posture, Dervla could only watch as Ustril paused to give the camp bed’s long-dead occupant one last look. Then, before striding out of sight, she said to Dervla:

  “I sincerely hope that you and your companions find treasures sufficient to satisfy Van Graes. I would advise that you resist any temptation to enter this wreck—the hazards within would overwhelm you. Goodbye.”

  Dervla heard soft footsteps moving back and forth behind her, then a faint creak, sounds of physical effort, and finally a deadened thud. Then silence.

  Damn! she thought, straining to move her limbs, still all locked in this stupid kneeling position. What did she mean by a “unique artefact”? Hope it’s not what it sounds like—Pyke’ll have a fit when he hears …

  Seconds dragged by with all the lithe velocity of a sleep-deprived sloth. Pyke! she wanted to yell. You cloth-eared gaggler—can you not hear that no one’s talking round here? What was most infuriating was that she could just hear Pyke chatting away with Ancil, muffled from their position back along the walkway.