The Dying Light

by Sean Williams

  Mavalhin made a noise of disgust from behind him. Roche ignored it.

  “Is that all?” she said.

  He shook his head. “You know as much as I do, now. Frightening how little it is, don’t you think?”

  Roche could only agree.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before the Kesh returned. Haid had been warming up for just ten minutes when B’shan walked in.

  “Why are you doing this?” Roche asked, stepping in front of him. “I thought you were better than the others.”

  “At least this way you’ll have a chance,” he said evenly.

  Up close Roche found the Kesh lieutenant’s skin almost beautiful: his blue and purple markings looked like tribal tattoos applied by a skilled ink-worker. For all his leanings toward mundane culture, it wasn’t difficult to believe that he could descend to such barbarism.

  She stepped out of the way. “You’re both fools,” she said.

  B’shan faced Haid across the room, and bowed. They exchanged a handful of words in the Kesh language, then bowed again.

  “He has consented to allow me use of my implants,” Haid said to Roche.

  “Otherwise I fear the battle would be somewhat one-sided,” B’shan explained.

  Roche shuddered at the idea of Haid stripped back to nothing but flesh. He would have been utterly helpless, a cripple.

  “The general will permit those of you who wish to observe to do so,” B’shan went on, addressing everyone. “You are, after all, witnesses to her oath, and we must ensure she carries it out. Combat will commence in five minutes.”

  “What about the weapons?” Roche directed the question at Haid, but it was B’shan who answered:

  “There will be no armor, powered or passive. There will be nothing but the druh.”

  “That’s the weapon we’ll be given,” explained Haid. “Not much more use than a pocketknife, really.”

  “Even a pocketknife can kill,” said B’shan.

  “I know. I’ve tried it.”

  B’shan straightened. At full stretch, he had about thirty centimeters on Haid, and he looked considerably stronger. While Roche didn’t doubt her friend’s agility under the best circumstances, fighting in half-g with unfamiliar implants was hardly optimal.

  Instead of saying anything more, B’shan simply bowed again and left the room. Haid followed, casting a reassuring look at Roche as he passed. When he had gone, the guards indicated that the others should also leave.

  As Roche walked out the room, Mavalhin stepped in beside her.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Morgan,” he hissed.

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re up to something, right? This is all a ruse of some kind.”

  She turned on him sharply. “Don’t look to me to get you out of your own stupid situations, Myer. And don’t bother trying to say it was me that got you into this mess, either. You jumped at the chance to join me when it looked like I was going somewhere—just like you did back at College.” For a moment she felt vertigo, as though reliving her dream of falling. “Take control of your own life, Myer, and leave me to sort out mine.”

  He backed away, face flushed with anger and embarrassment. She didn’t care. He meant nothing to her. All she wanted to do was talk to the Box. But she couldn’t. The slightest attempt to do so would result in its destruction, as well as Maii’s execution. If the Kesh detected any transmissions, it would be expelled into space and fired upon from a dozen different directions. No matter what sort of firepower it was rated to stand, that was going to hurt....

  They didn’t have to walk far. The general had ordered the garden windows to be smashed; there seemed no reason to maintain the delicate ecosystem any longer. Rufo’s dismay only increased when he saw the damage. The corridor surrounding the garden now more resembled a gallery, with both Kesh and mundanes curious to see what would happen. Word had obviously spread.

  When the two combatants stepped into the garden, a small cheer went up. Roche wasn’t sure for whom the cheer was intended; maybe it was just for the spectacle itself. Haid and B’shan stood on one of several mesh walkways crisscrossing the garden. Where the bottom was, Roche couldn’t see; far enough below for a fall likely to be lethal, she imagined.

  The general clapped her hands once. Haid and B’shan held curved bronze-colored swords in their left hands, each barely as long as the average Pristine forearm. They were intricately carved with elongated Kesh characters that made no sense to Roche. Haid raised his to kiss the narrow guard, and bowed to the general.

  “Sh’ten dri ha,” he called. “By the blade!”

  “To the death,” B’shan responded, also bowing.

  “Begin!” rasped the general, and the two men faced each other.

  They stood two meters apart, and were wary at first. Haid tested both his reach and B’shan’s defenses by darting forward twice to slash at the Kesh’s exposed side, but B’shan parried with ease. The third time Haid tried it, B’shan counterattacked with a quick stab, only to catch a boot to the side for his troubles. The kick didn’t even wind him, but it did take him by surprise. Roche could see the Kesh lieutenant hesitate, reassessing his opponent.

  Then the combat truly began. Later she would recall a hail of thrusts, stabs, and sweeping slashes from B’shan as he sought to overwhelm Haid’s defenses. The ex-mercenary was hard-pressed to keep up, parrying with his one good arm and relying on a more clumsy artificial limb to keep his balance. Twice B’shan’s druh caught Haid’s biomesh, parting several strands and slicing shallowly into flesh. It was difficult to tell through the blood,

  but Haid’s implants didn’t seem to be affected. He certainly didn’t display any sign of weakness. Apart from the odd moment when his guard was down, he fought as well as ever.

  It was clear from the outset, though, that he was no match for the Kesh officer. B’shan went for his kidneys, and Haid only just managed to block the blow. Barely had he recovered his balance when the druh swept in to slash his throat. He staggered backwards, ducking just out of reach. A halfhearted stab in the general direction of B’shan’s sword arm failed to connect, and he was struggling for his life again.

  Roche felt that her friend’s only hope lay in superior agility. B’shan had power to spare, able to hammer blows with an emphasis Haid couldn’t possibly match, but the Kesh’s size left him clumsy. A couple of times Haid gained ground by encouraging him to overextend, permitting a nimble stab from below, or a quick shove to put him off balance. At times like this, with B’shan forced onto his back foot, Haid made ground.

  But that ground was soon lost. Roche knew that unless fortune smiled upon him, Haid would ultimately fall.

  Her knuckles gripped the windowsill as Haid endured another blistering barrage from the Kesh. Above him, the general watched impassively, her expression almost one of boredom. For the most part the fight was conducted in silence, apart from the ringing of metal on metal, the various sounds of exertion, and the occasional call of encouragement from the spectators. Both men were breathing heavily, although the Kesh’s smooth skin was almost entirely sweat-free.

  B’shan had almost managed to back Haid to the end of the walkway when Haid miscalculated. Knowing that he was about to be cornered, the ex-mercenary needed to find space. There were only two options: another walkway, or pushing through B’shan and out the other side. For once, Haid took the offensive, summoning every last iota of energy to put B’shan off his stroke. The moment he had an opening, he leapt onto the guardrail and sprang for the next walkway down.

  It almost worked. The move took B’shan by surprise, just long enough for Haid to avoid the slash that followed him. He managed the leap well enough, his artificial legs being more than up to the task in half-gravity. It was the landing he fumbled, stumbling heavily and throwing out his good arm to break his fall.

  Roche heard the crack before she saw what had happened. The walkway he’d left partially obscured his new position,
and a few seconds passed before she found a better viewpoint. By the time she reached it, he was on his feet, holding his broken arm to his stomach. The sword was in the hand of his new arm. He flexed it, eyes seeking another way out as B’shan followed him across the gap.

  Eyes seeking her, Roche realized. He was waiting for her to save him.

  But there was nothing she could do.

  As B’shan straightened warily, druh at the ready in case Haid attacked while he recovered from the leap, a whistle echoed across the leafy space. It came from the general and her entourage, a Kesh version of the warning sirens associated with mundanes. The general held a whispered conversation with her interpreter, then looked pointedly across the garden to Roche.

  “Morgan Roche!” the general’s voice boomed. “Would you care to explain why we are once again under attack?”

  Everything stopped, and all eyes turned to look at her as the general continued:

  “I have just received word that a number of outrigger all-suits have been seen approaching this location in attack formation. I suppose you know nothing about this?”

  “I don’t, I swear!” And it was the truth. Roche genuinely had no idea what was going on. Another attack by the outriggers? What was Auditor Byrne up to?

  “Gah!” The general turned away, disgusted, back to Haid and B’shan. The two had backed away from each other during the interruption, although B’shan still stood with his weapon raised, as though unsure whether to continue. For a moment Roche was certain he would press home his advantage while the chance remained. But he didn’t.

  Haid grinned up at Roche, and nodded his thanks.

  Roche could only stare dumbstruck back at him.

  “This farce is at an end!” the general declared. “There will be no further distraction, and no more leniency. Lieutenant, your weapon.” The general indicated the druh in B’shan’s hand. The Kesh threw it expertly across and up to his superior, who caught it with one strong hand. She waved vaguely in Roche’s direction. “Bring her to me.”

  Roche realized what she meant when the general’s bodyguards began converging on her. She looked around for some way to escape, but every exit was blocked. A circle formed around her as she backed away. Strong hands grabbed her from behind and dragged her to where the general waited, druh at the ready.

  “It is bad luck to wield a blade without bloodying it,” the general said. She pointed at the ground before her, and Roche was pushed onto her knees. She struggled but could do nothing to prevent being forced facedown onto the ground at the general’s feet.

  “Morgan!” Haid’s voice echoed up from the gardens. She realized he couldn’t see what was going on, and was glad to be spared that indignity.

  “Ameidio!” she called back. “Do what the Box says—take the Ana Vereine—tell Maii—!”

  A boot connected with the side of her head to silence her, and her mouth filled with blood.

  She heard the general curse her in the Kesh native tongue. She sensed the blade being raised. She closed her eyes and waited for the blow.

  Into the expectant hush, a woman’s voice spoke.

  “General Darkan!” said the voice. It came over Galine Four’s public address system and seemed to echo from everywhere at once. “Surrender control of the Sebettu immediately or I shall overload its primary generator and send you all to hell!”

  Roche heard the general hiss. “Who is this? What is the meaning—”

  “You have thirty seconds to think about it. If I don’t have an answer by then, I will make good my promise.”

  The general roared. Roche, forgotten for the moment, dared to breathe again.

  “I do not listen to threats!”

  “Then listen to this: I have instructed your cooling systems to shut down. In five minutes a chain reaction will begin that cannot be stopped. Your primary generator will blow if you don’t give me a reason to reverse the instruction. There is nothing you can do to stop it, except to hand over control to me. It’s as simple as that. You now have twenty seconds left.”

  “How is this possible?” the general roared, but for the first time Roche detected a hint of fear in her voice. “How are you doing this?”

  “How I am doing this is irrelevant. Know only that I am doing it, and give me control of your ship!”

  “Never!” The booming voice was defiant, but the general’s expression was full of uncertainty.

  “Then mine will be the last voice any of you will ever hear.”

  “Who are you?” barked the general.

  “I’m the one everybody has been looking for, General,” said the voice. “But I suspect you already knew that.”

  Roche’s head reeled: female?

  There was a long silence from the general, then:

  “No,” said the general. “I would rather die than let you loose on an unsuspecting galaxy.”

  “So be it,” said the woman. “You have five minutes to make peace with Asha, General. I suggest you make good use of that time.”

  “You are bluffing!” the general hissed, but neither the clone warrior nor Morgan Roche was listening.

  INTERLUDE

  While under Xarodine, the universe was a very different place.

  What little he could see was far off and blurred. The only minds close to him belonged to the Shining One and the abomination. The latter also labored under the epsense-inhibiting drug, coiling around herself like a restless snake, while the former appeared to be sleeping. Certainly his thought patterns were passive and his sensory inputs minimal. Yet the dark speck at the heart of his glare was still active, and through this speck some of the outside world leaked in.

  The enigma had been taken away. The other Shining One had come closer. The Cruel One, too, had appeared to put fear into the hearts of her servants. Things were coming to a head, that was for certain, and he was frustrated to be kept at arm’s-length from it, trapped in a fog of Xarodine.

  Then someone appeared. It was a mind he had encountered before: petty, brittle, filled with self-doubt and hatred for all others. This mind came on a mission from the Cruel One: to take the Shining One elsewhere and to neutralize the other prisoners. Those were his orders, and he would fulfill them to the letter. It was either that or face further dishonor. And as far as this Kesh officer was concerned, dishonor was worse than death.

  “Neutralize” meant kill. That much he could glean from the mind bearing down on him. But it was with some relief that he contemplated the imminence of his demise, for it would also mean the end of the abomination.

  The officer spoke briefly to the guards, who admitted him to the secure compound with an escort and closed the doors behind him. Nothing, even now, was being left to chance.

  The officer checked the cocoon within which the Shining One rested. All was well there, it seemed. Various instruments and controls were prepared for travel, and an internal supply was activated. From that moment on, the Shining One became independent of everyone around him. Thus encased, he could survive several hours in a complete vacuum until the gel boiled away, and, if rescued in time, emerge unscathed.

  Not that the officer thought such precautions were necessary. He refused to believe that the captive could be superior to a Kesh warrior. The events he had witnessed in recent weeks he put down to luck, or the element of surprise. Pristines made poor warriors in his eyes, and he found their slaughter an unremarkable thing. All it would take was planning and persistence—the twin virtues of Kesh military dogma.

  When gunfire sounded from the other side of the security compound’s already battle-scarred doors, the Kesh officer thought for a moment that he was hearing things. There was no resistance left in the station; the Cruel One had everything under control. What could possibly have gone wrong?

  The Kesh officer wheeled the Shining One into the hallway and ordered his escort to guard the cocoon. When he tried to speak to the guards outside, only one of the two groups monitoring the double doors answered; the other was under attack by an unknow
n number of assailants.

  Remembering his other captives, the Kesh officer tried more esoteric means to find out what was going on. He had already decided not to call for reinforcements until he was sure what he was up against; he did not want to risk the general’s further displeasure.

  “How many are there?” he asked, manipulating the pain-givers.

  The minds of the guards under siege—imprecise and vague through the drug—saw only a single attacker, and then only fleetingly.

  : ONE

  “Who is it?”

  That one’s mind didn’t register at all.

  : NO ONE

  “Don’t play games with me—”

  The Kesh officer stopped, for the sound of gunfire at the entrance had ceased. But the silence didn’t last long: a moment later it began at the other entrance, where the second group of guards waited.

  “Who is that?”

  : NO ONE

  : ABOMINATION

  : KILL

  “Bah! You’re talking rubbish.”

  Still the officer hesitated to call for help. He was sure he and his guards could deal with a single assailant. The interior of the security compound would be easier to defend than the exterior, and he made sure his escort was ready for anything. They would put the three prisoners in one cell and seal it shut. That way the intruder would be at a disadvantage, not knowing which cell to aim for and therefore where to direct his attack.

  Then it occurred to the officer that the welfare of two of his prisoners was irrelevant. They could even be used to his advantage. The officer ordered the Shining One to be locked securely away once more and the other two to be brought out into the hallway.

  Again the gunfire ceased. The Kesh officer tensed. It was theoretically impossible for one person to open the doors, but he didn’t dare believe that would be the end of it.