The Return of the Grey

by Robert Lee Henry

‘You should not wander onto lonely rooftops on your own. Remember, this faction was ready to hazard men against me and the unknown that was the Scholar on his arrival merely to hide the hint of their plans. What will they dare now that their schemes have evolved? Do not leave yourself at risk. A vest may not be enough. Be accompanied, at all times, by competent people that you trust. I offer my services as time allows. For the remainder I would recommend either of the Greys once they return. Your previous escort of Tollen and his tall companion would be suitable, however, I believe both will be on the Rim for some time. In the meantime, we may have to make do with three or four marines out of Med.’ He paused to consider. ‘Spend as much time as possible in Med. Your habit of late seems to return you there. Continue that. It would be difficult for the faction to conceal assassins in the wards. The Doctor rules with a closed fist. Able-bodied people with unapproved business are soon expelled.’ He smiled. ‘Or worse.’

  All of Base knew the story, how Aesca had caught Nata stretching Mike Mancine’s newly mended arm only days after the fight that had put the big marine in Med; and how she had dropped Nata with a touch of her finger. Tranqued, he had spent the rest of that day in a bed himself.

  Nata motioned toward the stairwell. ‘That reminds me. I have to speak with her, a detail from Donen’s autopsy, a set of scars along his good arm, of interest to you also. It is late but the Doctor will likely still be in her wards. Unfortunately, it is not a place where I am welcome.’ He lost his smile for a second but it came back brighter. ‘There you see, our alliance already offers benefits. In this instance I will depend on you for my safety.’

  Celene permitted Nata to usher her along. Thankfully, as long-winded as he could be once started, long silences did not trouble him. She used the time to think. Colda was out of her reach, for a while. She must use this time to prepare, to identify his advisors, to make some plans of her own. Ahh. There Sussex can be of assistance. His evaluations would suffice, with some modules of her own added. If I direct him to start with Colda’s staff, to work down through the PlanCon hierarchy rather than up, then the information I require should arrive well before their return. Assessment would be difficult, falsifications and substitutions were likely. A challenge she welcomed.

  Celene’s irritation melted away. It was replaced by a pensive longing. They were approaching Med, where her ‘habit of late seemed to return her’ according to Nata. The habit, which she did not deny, had grown from her time with Spence. From the day he walked through the stun until the day he had been released, she had visited to sit by his bed. At first only at night, when the wards were quiet and he was sleeping, but then more often as time allowed. Eventually, if you could use that word over a span of days, she took her work there. Each time she lifted her eyes from her notebook or console, she would find him looking at her and draw a shy smile. At night she would watch him. The hard chair beside the bed had miraculously changed into a soft lounge and she was small enough to slide down and rest comfortably when sleep took her.

  From Med, he had gone straight to the Rim. It was hard for her. Almost as though something physical had been taken from her, from her being. She was unused to these feelings. At times they overwhelmed her. Yet she was reluctant to apply her analytical skills. She wanted logic nowhere near this wonder.

  He would come back to her. She knew that. Aesca had yelled that he had already done the impossible once, that he did not have it in him to do it again. But he loved her. Her. How could anyone love her? He had done the impossible twice; a third time would be easy for him. He would come back.

  CHAPTER 48: BITTER QUEST

  Serin could not make himself take the step. His fear was too great. This high in the Box, he knew that his fear was valid, logical and linked to self-preservation. At lower levels it could be imposed by the patterns. Overwhelming and unreasonable fear that froze you or made you scramble blindly in panic. Either reaction could result in death. High, however, the emotions engendered were of loftier character. Pride, zeal, devotion, rapture, wrapped in a sense of inevitability and invincibility. Transport of spirit just as deadly as the base snares below. They ran in his blood all the time now, these feelings. He was too susceptible here in the heights. The barest reflection or play of shadows could catch him, cause his surrender and ultimately his death.

  He had ascended strapped to a grav work platform at the darkest hour of the darkest night. The wan light of the false moons was missing, the build up of complex orbits leaving all the satellites beyond the horizon for a few hours. Only once every three years did this happen. It must be significant. Tonight my quest will be fulfilled. My revelation was darkness. The others saw light.

  Visions had come to them in abundance, suddenly strong and clear after months of deprivation. ‘The result of Donen’s sacrifice’ said Visco. ‘A reward for true devotion’ had added Clairvaus. Once more they had purpose. The great scheme was advancing. The new wave was on its way. The creation of the Followers. Three a day they managed now. Presented to them by Visco, scheduled into the very operations of Base. No need for stealth or haste. From the list of those that had assayed the Box two times. Their conversion was swift. Those that failed were eliminated. A mark of the caretakers’ new power. No fear now in serving the cause. No holding back.

  The new subjects were taken only as high as the level of acceptance. For that was the decree of the Cross. No one was to be exposed to the highest levels again.

  ‘We, the originals, who have assayed all levels, are the chosen,’ had said Visco.

  ‘The arms of the Cross,’ intoned Clairvaus. ‘Now returned to the sacred number by sacrifice of blood, we are empowered to continue the work.’

  The work was the creation of the secret army, those that would serve. The Followers. Serin had no objection to the task. The task was true. But all had not been revealed. There had been no mention of the leader. There had to be a leader.

  In the vault, under the compulsion of the relic, with the tang of blood and wax burning in his nostrils, he had seen the Heartless Cross burn brighter than ever before. But it did not rise to reveal a hierarchy of lesser lights as was the others’ shared vision. For him the cross had dimmed and receded, faster than the dying light around it until it had become a black star in a dark sky, pulling at him. There had to be more. He knew it. The others rejoiced in their roles, their discontent burnt away by new purpose. Not him. There had to be more.

  Only Visco had the sense to see it. Visco had followed him onto the plain after, to talk under the grey light of the satellites away from the others.

  ‘Wait, Serin,’ he had called. ‘We must talk. Weighty matters remain. More was presented this night than the task that so enthrals the others.’

  ‘They do not see that. The fools are satisfied. Their world is complete.’

  ‘Yes. Exactly right,’ Visco agreed. ‘That is why. It must be. The rest of the vision was not for them. They have reached their limits. It must be so or they would know that … know that -’

  ‘That there is more.’

  ‘Yes! There is more,’ agreed Visco. ‘Great matters. Beyond their ken. Maybe beyond mine, I am afraid. I am not sure of what I saw.’

  Not sure! The need is clear.

  ‘I asked Clairvaus,’ said Visco. ‘His devotion is great. I thought that it might have granted him clarity.’

  ‘The need is not for some hollow priest, to spout stricture or praise.’

  ‘No. Not a priest,’ agreed Visco. ‘However great his faith, a priest is only a vessel. He can not act. He can not lead. No, Clairvaus did not see anything beyond the others. It was not for him.’

  Of course. It is for me! I am the chosen one.

  ‘I fear for our cause,’ said Visco. ‘There must be a message there. Something special.’

  ‘I saw the dark,’ said Serin.

  ‘The dark? How so?’ Visco asked.

  ‘The cross burned black in the dark. It pulled at me.’

  ‘Ahh. It wants you. To seek, to search
. A search with a momentous outcome. Great power the reward. For you alone. The signs must be there. Only you will know them. You must complete this quest.’

  Visco had paused in contemplation before continuing. ‘Now I understand. All that the others saw was the light. But beyond the light was darkness. Darkness, not emptiness. There was something there.’ He stopped to point at the armguard hanging on Serin’s chest. The scored cross stood out, even in the dim light. ‘The Cross rose as if carried in your vision, as if worn. Behind were hints of a great form, marked by deepest black. Black in the dark, your vision. A colossus defined by its coverings.’

  Yes! The armour! The armguard had come to him, started him on his path, started everything. It was potent. It had engendered all that had been accomplished.

  One armguard. How much more power would he have when he wore the full suit, the embossed black armour of the leader of the Ardent? Complete. It was in the Box waiting for the chosen leader. Waiting for him.

  It had always weighed on his mind, driven his lonely exploration of the Box. He had not wanted one of the others to find it, not to touch a piece of it. At last he understood why.

  That great revelation shared with Visco had brought him here this night, to the highest levels. On this night of portents.

  The lower and mid levels he knew from work, this search went higher, carefully, painstakingly. Painstakingly. For there was pain, oh yes. The sweet pull of the patterns was a hurt on its own, a sharp hook buried in his vitals drawn tight by a steel cord. To deny it was anguish. To work against it was agony. Yet he had. In this new trial. To prove his worthiness. He had prevailed until now. Stopped by doubt, by fear not pain.

  Only the highest, most dangerous area remained. The framework of the Box was so tight that he could not bring the work platform in. He would have to leave the platform and the safety of its lights and climb unprotected.

  He slid one foot onto the framework. The contact sent a surge through his body. Ahhh. The other foot followed without thought. Where? It must be close. I can feel it! The lights from the platform troubled him. In the shadow cast by his body he thought he saw something. Deep in the maze, a darker patch. He dimmed the lights with a remote. Maybe. Something was taking shape under his concentration. Not clear enough. He lifted his visor, shut the lights behind him. Yes! There it is. Weak grey light flowed in from the side to give it form. An opening! Leading into the heart of the level!

  A change in the light drew his eyes to the side. Ahhh! The Cross! It burned in front of him, brighter than in any vision. It flooded his awareness. Ecstasy. His heart beat to its pulse, growing ever faster, and hotter, until it burst into incandescence. Ooahh! White light changed to red orange. Mortality was burned away, his spirit refined to its essence, an everlasting ember set to glow for eternity. The Cross called him. To fill its empty centre. With the ember at its heart it would be complete. He went forward.

  He hit his head hard on a beam as he fell, and again when the tether jerked tight and swung him into the framework. He hung in space until the automatics kicked in and reeled him up. Full consciousness returned as he was dragged over the edge of the platform. Blood dripped from a cut on his forehead and from his smashed mouth. He could not sort the pain from his wounds from the pain of his failure.

  So close. I saw it. An opening leading in. It must lead somewhere. In his mind he created a vault, of dark steel but otherwise not dissimilar to their vault on the plain. In it the armour lay on an altar, glossy black, elaborately embossed with patterns of knowledge and power, waiting for him.

  The motors hummed to life and the platform started its descent. Preset, a precaution like the tether. To keep him alive.

  Pain offset pain. I am alive. Not failure. Another test survived. Closer to my goal. He trembled when he thought how close. The prize is worth my suffering. Great reward requires greater sacrifice. My travails prepare me. For my transformation. An image of his body burning away came to mind, followed quickly by the recognition of its source.

  He was still at risk. He knew that and kept his eyes squeezed shut as he huddled against the upright in the centre of the platform. A bare glance could trap him again and this time he would know to disengage the tether.

  CHAPTER 49: CONCERNS IN MED

  Aesca broke the connection. Another one. It worried her. Three reported from craft in space and now a second one here on Base. Catatonia. Catalepsy. Call it what you will. Usually it was considered a psychological problem, but with this sudden rash of cases she suspected a biological origin. Nothing had shown up so far on the scans but the agents could be very subtle. There was the strong possibility that this was a weapon, designed to go undetected. She would run vectors.

  She replaced her comm on her belt and returned her attention to Sub-commander Visco. She caught him staring at her breasts. There was a flicker of hunger there that surprised her. He turned away quickly, apparently embarrassed. Oh well, his health seems to be improving lately, perhaps that is just a sign of his invigoration. She could not blame it all on him. She had become very physical with Michael and she missed the sex. Maybe it shows. Maybe I exude something. She seemed to find men watching her often now. Maybe I have just become more aware.

  ‘Another one, Commander,’ she said to Visco. ‘Lammas, the Blue that took over the armoury. They are bringing him up.’

  Aesca saw worry, almost fear, shoot across Visco’s face. He is truly concerned. She tried to ease his fears. ‘We are working on the cause. More cases will actually assist in some aspects of that investigation. If it is biological, I am sure we will be able to isolate it. In the meantime, we can treat the symptoms. The Senior Psych is also assisting.’

  Her words did not seem to be helping. His apprehension was clear.

  ‘What will happen to these men? What is the source of this outbreak? What can we do?’ he asked.

  Anger started to rise. Did he think that she could not deal with it? ‘I assure you that this outbreak, if you wish to call five cases that, will be controlled.’ Why is he so concerned? Command has been notified, of course, but the numbers are not high enough to make this an operational matter. Not yet.

  ‘Sorry, Doctor,’ he apologised. ‘It is in the best hands. I did not mean to imply otherwise.’ He hesitated then went on. ‘My worries are more personal. My actions may have worsened the situation.’ His head sunk to his chest.

  His actions? How could he be involved? What sort of a confession is coming? What has he been dabbling in? ‘Out with it,’ she demanded.

  ‘I have sent crews out on clandestine operations. Small crews, in some cases only two cadremen. Into the backwaters of the Arm, to monitor traffic, freight movements, passage of unidentified craft, to identify raiders.’ He lifted his eyes and his palms to her. ‘The cadremen are not marines. Most have seen little more than customs duty over the last few years. They are not battle hardened like the marines and lack their resolve. I am loath to throw them against superior numbers. The marines may live through that on the Rim, but the cadremen on this mission …?’ He trailed off only to start again. ‘We must have this intelligence. But you see, now, with this malady rife, that these crews are at risk. Their contact with Base is limited. Some we can not warn.’

  Is that all? A concern for his people. Commendable, although over-reactive. It is not only the cadremen that have been out of the line for years. ‘Don’t worry, Commander. The level of incidence is very low and the condition is not life threatening, neither to the sufferers nor those in their company. I am sure that our craft have sufficient failsafes built in to cope with a pilot’s incapacitation. And that is the major effect, a trance-like state lasting minutes, rarely more than an hour. Your men should be able to cope as well as their machines.’ If the incidence crept up and the Guard was suddenly faced with battle, then it could become critical. But that was Quartermaine’s worry and she had already passed it on. She had her own job to do. ‘I must get on to my rounds now, Commander. Command will be notified if there are any furthe
r developments.’

  Aesca could feel his eyes on her hips as she walked away. There is something wrong here. From old woman to predatory male in a heartbeat. Archaic language? ‘Loath’ and ‘malady’. And this admiration for the marines was new to her. No cadreman would admit inferiority. Maybe he is one we should watch for fits. Psychological disturbance may precede the physiological effects. She would have to discuss that with Celene.

  CHAPTER 50: OLD HEADS

  Not much of a conversation. Two old men stubbornly staring at each other. I don’t want to make this an order but I will if I have to, thought Quartermaine.

  ‘Temporary. Hell, you know what temporary means,’ said Thomas. ‘As old as we are it could be the rest of our lives. Don’t give me ‘temporary’.’

  Damn. Thomas could make him mad. It had always been this way. ‘You’ve got something better to do? You want to stay here bashing steel?’

  ‘Yah,’ said Thomas, slamming his hammer against the bent wing of a carrier. He went back to work, tapping and straightening, as if he was alone.

  Quartermaine picked up a larger hammer and went around to the other side. Wham. Every time Thomas struck, so did he. When he had the right front bent out, he went to the back. Wham. It felt good. When Thomas came around to the right front, he moved on to the left rear. The blows came quicker and heavier. Blam, blam. Soon he was back to the front, at the wing Thomas had been working on when their conversation had started. Wham! Wham!

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’ shouted Thomas.

  ‘Keeping you busy. Giving you work. So you can work out your remaining days in peace.’

  ‘I’ll give you peace, you senile old bastard. Dare to come into my workshop and play the fool.’ He lifted his hammer. ‘I got what you need right here.’

  ‘I need weapons sorted, repaired and issued. I need people trained in their use. That’s what I need, what the Guard needs. From you.’