Glorious Angels

by Justina Robson

  ‘Landing will be rough,’ the commander said.

  ‘Approaching now,’ the pilot sounded tense. ‘Expect enemy activity.’

  Minna looked around the faces in the row opposite her and saw them, pasty and grey, eyes closed or staring fixedly at something in the hold. She checked her harness – it was rock solid. A sick feeling of intense fear took hold of her – that even if the landing went safely enough some accident could still blow her up. She closed her eyes too, not wanting any last images to be of these people.

  What followed was a confusion to her in which she expected every second to be the final moment. The engines started to scream, the plane shuddered violently, bounced, hit the ground hard. All along noises of breaking, snapping outside. Then they spun with a jerk that made her head slam into the rest and continued to slide and spin with a screeching that replaced all the lesser cacophony. Screaming slowly broke through this, and there were more bounces and judders before everything stopped with a sudden, final impact. She gathered they were on the ground and pressed the release catch on her harness.

  It took several seconds to get her bearings as she struggled to get up and realised they were listing to the side at about twenty degrees. A few of the other passengers were moving too, but some hung limp in their seats, heads down. To the rear of the craft was a huge hole – the entire back section was gone and three or four seats with it.

  ‘Keep going,’ said a voice by her ear. She looked around and saw the pilot – only a few years older than she was. Her face was grim and marked with black streaks, burns and the look of one who won’t tolerate any argument. She shoved Minna in front of her, ignoring the rest of the people, and Minna had to get out of the way, which meant going along the aisle to the ripped maw, passing others who were still stuck in their seats, unconscious or stunned, sliding on the sloping floor, until she got to the end where there was a two-metre drop at the end of a long, gouged muddy trail in the ground. Minna sat down on the edge trying to get her nerve up but a heavy shove at the base of her spine sent her out into the air and then face down and winded into thick, lush grass and heavy earth.

  When she got to her feet the pilot was already there beside her. Heavier, taller and obviously much better trained than Minna, the woman grabbed Minna’s harness and began to haul her along. ‘Move, move!’

  ‘But, what about the others?’ Minna had all her abilities tested just to keep on her feet as they battered through heavy vegetation, across a sunlit field where the grass was shoulder high and tangled with narrow, clinging weed. She saw the pilot’s name stenciled on the back of her flightsuit; Dahn, Flightcrew Captain.

  ‘They’ve got their orders, I’ve got mine,’ came the reply, followed by a stream of swearing Minna barely understood. She soon realised they were out of sight of the plane.

  ‘No! Wait. They’ll kill me. We have to go back!’

  ‘No they won’t.’ The pilot dragged some object out of her flightsuit and showed it to Minna, then stopped long enough to clip it firmly inside Minna’s suit. ‘Signal disruptor.’

  ‘Wait. What?’ Minna stumbled as she was dragged again.

  The pilot made her go further, then sit down, and covered her up with grass. Then she looked firmly at Minna. ‘I’ve got a job to do. You sit tight.’

  Minna made a sound, not large enough to be a word, and sat very still. After a short while there was an explosion big enough to shake the ground and it occurred to her that she could go, run now while nobody was looking, if that promise of the signal disruptor was true. But she found she was afraid and she wanted the pilot to come back. Spire had done this, she thought, made her weak, but gunfire came, burst after burst of mechanical ballistic weapons, and she flattened herself even more, feeling water soak slowly into her legs from the ground.

  She was sick and moved a few feet away to get from the vomit, crushing weeds that gave off a vile, pungent odour and left little hairs sticking to her clothes and skin where they itched. A scream, and another, and another shook her through the grip her arms had over her head. She could only listen as the sounds of the crew’s combat grew sporadic, weak, then silent. She waited, counting seconds to try and guess the time elapsing. After five minutes she wondered why she had faith that the pilot would return at all. Some of the screams had been female, she was certain. She had almost worked up the nerve to try and look over the grass to where pops and bangs suggested the fuselage of the plane was still burning when a rustle closer to hand made her freeze.

  Hopefully, she looked up through her fingers and saw the familiar colour and shape of a soldier’s overalls part the grass. She was about to speak when she noticed that the man’s head was hanging at the wrong angle for any living person and his eyes were rolled to the white. The body moved towards her and then was discarded with a contemptuous gesture by the creature that had carried it there. It sat, a huge, dark brown and purple hairless beast, like a horse that had been remade into a wolf. To her terrified gaze it seemed bone-skinned. Karoo she thought. This must be. It was less human than Tzaban had been, and much less decorative. Its head was the size of a horse’s, and the same shape, but narrower, with a toothed muzzle, long whiskers and large, yellow eyes. Blood adorned it freely and ran from a wound in its side. It had huge hands instead of paws at the front. It sniffed the air with nostrils that flared wetly, panting in the muggy heat with its tongue hanging out like a strip of raw meat from the side of its mouth. It sat down on near fleshless hindquarters and stared at her.

  She couldn’t move her hands from her face. She couldn’t move at all but she knew she’d peed her pants. Seconds passed and it sat there, regaining its breath, its huge, ugly ears shifting around, listening though the eyes never stopped looking at her. She didn’t understand what it was doing or why it stopped. Then it glanced behind it and shuffled quickly out of the way to let something pass. Minna recoiled, leaning back. Her throat was too tight to breathe and she longed to pass out but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to know the next part but her fingers wouldn’t move to entirely cover her eyes either. What she did see next made no sense.

  The pilot, Dahn, walked through the grass towards her. She paid no attention to the creature at all as it scooted out of her way, belly low, shifting out of Minna’s tiny slit range of vision. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Minna turned her head a fraction. She could not move more. She saw Dahn make a tiny jerk movement with the tip of her nose and the creature vanished into the grass, heading in the direction she had indicated. The pilot turned back to Minna, her dark eyes impatient. ‘You get up now. Everything’s fine. They won’t cause you any trouble. We need to make it to the rendezvous with Glimshard at the burial site.’ She crossed the metre to where Minna sat, ashamed and afraid, and put her hand out. ‘Come on. It’s only a half a day’s walk from here. When we get there you’ll be safe.’

  Minna’s mouth tried to form the questions that were zinging around inside her head but then again, she was too frightened for that too – because if Dahn could make that thing obey her then… Well, she didn’t know what then but it was bad even as it was good in its way. Her hesitation was too long for her new helper. The woman, tall and strong, reached down the last inch and took hold of her wrist firmly, prising her hand away from her head and beginning to pull her with a force that suggested she’d be glad to drag her if that’s what it took. ‘You must move now. We can’t stay here. Those… The animals that did this. They’ll come back. I drew them off but they can come anytime.’ The last line sounded like a promise.

  Minna felt her arm jerked so hard something in her elbow gave for a moment and she shrieked in new alarm. It came out as a faint bleat and then she was on her feet and stumbling after Dahn’s confident stride into the grass that stretched up over both their heads.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  TORADA

  Torada stood in the unfamiliar confines of the city’s flight deck and marvelled at the ease with which the engineers and mages there moved among the architect
ures of light that surrounded them. She had never had the faintest inkling of how the webs of symbols and shapes that they wore like auras could mean anything. No matter how long she had stared at them they remained pretty lights in the air. That didn’t spoil the fascination of watching them change and glow under the grooming hands of the experts now. She revelled in their mastery as if it were her own.

  Isabeau Huntingore in particular attracted her attention with a feeling it took her a while to decode until she realised she wished that she were the engineer, moving among the others with such patience, grace and authority. Isabeau was even younger than she was, but already a mistress of her talent. Torada knew she was mistress of her own, although, as she rubbed the itchy rash on the inside of her palms, she wasn’t sure if that was changing. It was Isabeau’s innocence she envied. What she wouldn’t give for five minutes inside that head, experiencing such flow without the guilt and the suspicions that harried her daylong. She indulged herself with the longing for thirty seconds which might plausibly be explained away as fruitful observations and then signalled that she wished to speak.

  Isabeau joined her at the helm station. From here, although it was deep within the city’s heart, they could see the full vista of the landscape over which they were suspended. On the magepane the city was drawn on to the scene with artistic simplicity, about the size of Torada’s hand, and its shadow was displayed upon the ground. Since it was a topdown view at the moment, the sky could not be seen but with a gesture this could be changed to any angle. The dark cut-out of the towered mass blew at a slow, stately creep across the eastern plains, following the line of the old trading road and darkening it and several fields beyond it like a vast stormcloud. Behind them the strange earthen print of the base disc sat in odd symmetry atop the low hill that had given it support for so many years. She was glad there was no sign of damage in their wake, but she deliberately did not look back too far, lest she see people who had not reached the city in time and who now faced the arrival of the Spire army. She must trust in Spire’s belligerent attitude to rules and formalities that they would be treated fairly and kindly. For most of them it was unthinkable that one arm of the Empire could turn against another. She was counting on that now.

  She turned her head and realised Huntingore was looking at her – rather bold in the circumstances but she was already used to Isabeau’s desire to be pragmatic overriding her more social instincts. ‘Engineer, please report.’

  Isabeau’s face was ash white with fatigue but she showed no other sign of it. ‘All systems are within functional norms. Structural support fields are stable. The power output remains steady. However, I believe it would be prudent to move higher, although the winds there may push us slightly off course.’

  Torada nodded, hearing that things were okay. She knew there had been a few casualties during the take-off but nothing like she had feared. Most were down to walls or furniture falling down and crushing people. Exhilaration filled her again as she revelled in the moment of her daring. After over two centuries of dormancy who would have wanted to consider waking the city again and taking to the air? But she had never doubted she would.

  A messenger in her colours squeezed in through the door and curtseyed before her, just to the side, trying not to look at the amazing map of the landscape as she begged Torada’s attention.

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘Highness, the portal to the east has been shut down by Engineer… by Professor Huntingore. Captain Gau Tam sends word and will take the rest of the journey on foot and horse to the south to meet with you there.’

  Torada felt her lips tighten – another tell she must practise eradicating. Too long at peaceful complacence had left her vulnerable in this way. ‘Thank you,’ she said absently. ‘I thought this might be so.’ Then she looked pointedly at Isabeau.

  ‘We can change course, but to pass the mountains we would have to gain more than four thousand metres of height and create a shell to protect the city from the cold. The air will be thinner, but it will be manageable.’

  ‘Do it. Move south without delay,’ Torada said and hesitated, seeing that Isabeau had more to say.

  ‘We need to create the shell. It should take about twenty or so hours as long as there are no serious problems. We cannot move much higher until then.’

  ‘Do all you can, Engineer. I don’t want Spire arriving before us, though I have done all I can to delay them.’ She considered if there were more she wanted done, and decided it could wait. For a moment she smiled, seeing Hakka’s face rapt as he stared at the image on the pane – the world moved beneath them, so small, as if turned by will alone.

  Her moment of pleasure in his awe was spoiled when she realised the time. As the Pantheon of the Empress spread out its mantle in her mind she strangled what was left of her pity, guilt and worry over what she had done. She tilted her head and pretended to enjoy the view, a hand resting on Hakka’s arm the only sign to others in the room that she was anything other than properly attentive. Meanwhile, the Pantheon within her expanded until the true and distinct presence of the other Empresses filled her absolutely. They might be at war, but they were still one.

  The disharmony was shocking even though she knew to expect it. Within that moment Spire rounded on her and pounced, accurate as an old queen cat. ‘You little upstart! There was no consensus on the departure of Glimshard. What about your responsibilities to the Commons? Do you think this is a pleasure cruiser to dispose of at your whim?’

  The onslaught of her fury was like a punch in the face, and three others were in cautious alignment with her which only made the blow more penetrating. Torada could do nothing but focus on her own centre and weather the storm of disapproval and, she fancied, loathing. It hurt her deeply and she reflected that they call it excoriation for a reason – these things cut your heart out – and after it’s rather strange to go on living; it proves, as Night had taught her, that whatever is having its heart chopped up and hand-delivered to it on a fancy dish is not what you really are. You’re not dead.

  It still hurt. All deaths must, she fancied, using the moment to muse on it. This step-back from the carnage gained her the required perspective. It was a trick she had grown so used to it was automatic. She found herself in the still and calm centre that nothing touched, even the Eight.

  ‘How small everything looks,’ Hakka said, disarmed by the sights in a rare moment of charm.

  ‘Indeed,’ she managed, her fingers digging into his solid warmth and borrowing strength. She was grateful for him for the millionth time. To the Pantheon she said, calmly, ‘I believe that my best judgement for all has been in action during this unusual time. The terrible losses that my city and I have experienced in our attempts to secure the artefact cannot be sustained at any greater length. Our finances, our spirits, are depleted. To ensure the succession of any powers contained in the artefact we considered it essential to move there as quickly as possible.’

  ‘And marrying that filthy animal?’ Spire was again in alignment with five of the rest, their allegiance with her in range from total agreement to uneasy suspicion. ‘Can you imagine you are brokering some peace with a petty little warlord like those wretches starving on the Steppelands you have failed to see prosper? Karoo know nothing of civilisation, even so meagre a notion as honour. We counselled you to imprison him. Where then your purpose in this madness?’

  All Empresses wished her to answer, their focus so intense that she must, and only hours of preparation permitted her to do it. Speaking in the face of them was as arduous as climbing a mountain.

  ‘I did make a bargain with him, but not a treaty. I bargained for knowledge of the Karoo. The wedding was purely for show to calm the people and show that by embracing what is strange and unknown there can be many benefits…’

  The rest of her speech flew out of her head as Spire’s conjunction of rage again arrowed in on her. ‘Benefits?! What benefits can there be from a breed that has nothing to offer the Empire but death? Although I
have heard of your unusual tastes in these matters, Torada, I cannot believe you sate your lust purely to mock the rest of us, whatever trance you have put your people into.’

  Torada stood. The impact of their outrage was so enormous that she seriously did wonder what she was doing though it also amused her to find Spire so shaken she was now taking things personally. ‘It is the reports from the artefact, and from my general, which have convinced me that the Karoo are open to bargaining with us over the contents of the…’

  ‘I cannot believe you!’ Their unity overran her effortlessly, voiced by Spire but she was merely the mouthpiece of the many. ‘What could they possibly want with it? It is simply unfortunate that it is within the limits of what they consider their territory.’

  ‘Well it certainly isn’t our territory,’ Torada replied and found, to her surprise, three others in concert with her. They gave her the impetus to continue. ‘We need him as a go-between. The Karoo, as he has told me and proven, are relentless, vicious and territorial. Nothing could deter them from defending their territories, so attempting to secure the item by force was a poor decision on our part.’ She paused to let the ‘our’ sink in a little, then continued. ‘However, they are open to deals when the deal includes life magic. They are life elementals, at their root, and that is the only currency they understand.’

  ‘Is that what you will call it when they suck the blood from your neck?’ Spire said, but her ire was dampened.

  ‘I doubt I will call it anything,’ Torada said and briefly found a seven alignment attuned to her dry moment of humour. She used it. ‘Since you are already sending your own agents to aid me, Jagorin, I feel confident we will manage something together.’ The magic word, ‘together’ gained her at last, an eightfold accord. Even Spire wanted to act in concert more than discord and, as Torada had expected, she also had no intention of disabusing the other Empresses of her true actions within Glimshard. Torada and she had entered into a conspiracy of two with their treachery and Spire must comply now, or face scorn and the retribution of the law for taking arms up against a sister state.