The Weight of the World

by Tom Toner

  It sang happily to itself, slithering down through the smoky air to the gun chambers where the Lacaille had been in the process of loading fresh Golanite shells until the lights had burned out. The sweating crew squabbled, yammering, some dropping their ordnance. A particularly small Lacaille was crushed in the dark by a falling stack of shells.

  Perception rose along the ladders to the flight deck, inspecting the scarred captain with interest as he lit lanterns. The porthole shields must have been lowered during manoeuvres and now couldn’t be reopened manually. Perception read quickly through the stacked charts and papers in the small operations capsule, listening intently to the Lacaille language as the captain and his men discussed their options. It was clear they hadn’t a clue what was causing them so many problems. The Spirit roared with laughter.

  “Who’s that?” the captain bellowed, firing off a shot into the darkness. The bolt passed through the spirit without displacing a single particle, still causing Perception’s animal-built mind to flinch at the sound. The Spirit thought on this for a moment, then cackled and blew gently into the lantern, lengthening the candle flame into a tail of fire until it caught among the paper charts.

  The captain screeched, dropping the lantern he was holding and unholstering his lumen pistol. He fired into the corridor beyond the flight deck, a blaze of light illuminating the Spirit’s form for one strobing moment. Perception sneered, fluttering the papers as it whipped the growing flames into a fury, surrounding them, herding them. The Lacaille ran for the ladder, the coiling fire blazing after them.

  The captain jumped the last few rungs of the ladder, twisting his ankle, and hobbled for the armoury. Perception roared after him, cornering him with a fluttering cyclone of burning papers while the others rushed past their captain and locked themselves inside.

  “Did you hear that?” Huerepo asked, twitching his ears as he navigated his way down from the pipe. Lycaste shrugged and muttered, climbing back under the blanket of sticky Amaranthine clothing to nurse his sore head.

  “Shhh,” the Vulgar hissed. Lycaste listened.

  The whistles of the Oxel had grown frantic. The crack of a shot rang out, echoing around the ship, abruptly followed by a cacophony. Lycaste cowered in his sheets. He knew the Epsilon had no topside hatchways— Weepert had complained of the fact barely an hour before—and realised they must have come in through the cistern chutes.

  Huerepo pressed his ear flat against the door, his little eyes roving around as he listened.

  “Brace!” came Poltor’s choppy voice over the interior comms. Lycaste and Huerepo glanced at each other.

  The Epsilon plunged into a nosedive, hurling them over to the other side of the room. The ship swivelled, dumping them first against the porthole and then through the locked door, demolishing it. Lycaste found himself pinned to the hallway ceiling with most of his possessions and the splintered slats of the door, his back bent, searing, across the hot water pipes. Huerepo had been thrown into the opposite chamber. Lycaste twisted to see the Vulgar wedged against the far porthole: a view of blue, cascading water rushed past.

  “We’re inside the moon again!”

  Huerepo struggled to take a look behind him. Suddenly they were weightless once more as the ship passed some sort of boundary and spun. Lycaste fell free, missing his own chamber and crashing into the wall. Huerepo yelped as his door closed with a thump, sealing him in.

  Lycaste staggered to his feet, stowing his pistol as he realised what would happen if he fired the thing on board. He stared first left and then right down the rolled passageway. Panicked Proximo birds chirruped and flapped in their cages, having been slung about on chains connected to hooks in the ceiling. A few had broken free and appeared to be engaged in trying to release their friends. Lycaste observed them fluttering off, worried that some of the Oratory’s spiders—collected with a long stick by Poltor and caged for the journey—might also escape. He took a moment to get his bearings.

  “I’m going to the hangar,” Lycaste called to Huerepo as another volley of distantly lethal-sounding gunshots punctured the background roar of the Epsilon.

  He climbed the ladder, feeling peculiarly naked without his cuirass, which he’d left in the mess. Just beyond, in the hold, he knew there were weapons that wouldn’t snap the entire hull of the ship away if he missed his target. The ship plummeted nauseatingly once more, pinning him inside the ladder compartment, levelling out only after Lycaste was convinced they’d be falling for ever. He climbed rapidly before it could dive again and arrived in the scullery just as three Lacaille fell from the opposite hatchway and landed with a series of clangs and curses on the scorching-red hotplates. One of the stocky little things opened up his helmet, his thick golden beard spilling out, and gazed around, sharp white ears twitching. He spied Lycaste peering up at him from the entrance and unclipped his pistol.

  “Get—!” Weepert wailed, jumping down from the cupboards in front of Lycaste and swinging a reflective pan in the invaders’ direction “Out!” Bolts slammed and ricocheted, leaping from polished surfaces.

  Once more the whole chamber rolled, as if built inside the spokes of an enormous wheel. Down became up, launching a fresh hail of food and implements as the lighting wire snapped and lit the place with hissing, sparking flashes. Lycaste knocked his head with a jarring crack as he slid to the next bulkhead, a pile of debris following on behind and almost covering him.

  Weepert rolled, slamming his pan into one of the Lacaille’s suit chimneys and denting it flat, then unholstered his own pistol and shot another of them in the helmet. Lycaste watched, incredulous, as the bearded Lacaille ran for his life, scampering on tiny legs back through the passageway towards the brig. Weepert continued hammering at the befuddled Lacaille, denting its helmet into a flattened sallet shape like those the Vulgar favoured, while the second struggled madly with his suit vent. Lycaste could only guess from the way the soldier staggered that smoke was building up inside its armour. Weepert delivered a final blow to the Lacaille, knocking the useless helmet off and pulping its skull into its metal collar like a ripe plum. He left it among the smashed dishes and went to work on the asphyxiating fellow still gagging and pounding his armour.

  “You’d better hide somewhere,” Weepert puffed, his face red and sweaty.

  “I was going to the hold,” he said, waggling his pistol.

  The cook delivered another blow to the gasping Lacaille’s suit. “The jet!”

  Lycaste’s eyes widened. He tried to remember where the nearest shouting trumpet was, casting his mind back. There was one near the brig, on the way down to the hangar. They wouldn’t have thought of the jet.

  As he got to his feet, the ship rolled and dived again, pouring Weepert, the two bodies and what was left of the scullery’s inventory in his direction. They piled into the porcelain sink, shattering it. A scream from the hall announced that the escapee was falling towards them, too. He landed on top of Weepert, squashing them all down with his added weight. Lycaste swore, pinned beneath the headless body of the battered Lacaille while the cook and the invader struggled and swung punches at one another above him, the whole pile sliding as the ship swerved. The vacuum soldier broke Weepert’s nose with his gauntlet, spattering blood, and unclipped his gun. Weepert held his gushing nose, concussed. Lycaste stretched out his free hand, trying to swat the Lacaille out of the way, but his fingers fluttered uselessly just out of range. The soldier pressed his pistol to the cook’s cheek.

  Lycaste’s ear’s closed at the bang. The cook spasmed and slumped, his eyes rolling into his head. Lycaste locked gazes with the Lacaille as one final swerve sent them both into the hallway, burying the attacker and freeing him. He wormed his way out of the debris, shoving aside the pile of bodies and crockery to trap the soldier beneath, then kicked the weapon away and brought his foot down onto the creature’s body, denting its armour almost flat.

  He left it wheezing, trapped and punctured to atone for what it had done and took the lumen pistol.
Weepert’s body pumped blood into the scullery, sloshing among the smashed crockery and food. He stared down at the cook, having assumed up until now that nothing could shock him any more. But he’d been wrong.

  There was only one way to go from here. Lycaste stole into the adjoining hatchway, a hallway of hanging rugs and linen left to dry in one of the engine vents. From what he could hear, the fighting was taking place mostly in the forward battery chambers beneath him. He followed the passageway around, sweeping aside mouldering linen, resisting the urge to take one last glance back at the bloodied mess that had been the cook.

  Perception returned to the flight deck, having rounded up the last of the terrified Lacaille and forced them into the armoury. It stared at the burning papers still settling on the floor. I’ve made fire, clever little me. Now to unmake it. It sank to the ground like a nocturnal mist, smothering the smouldering charts. They fizzled out as the cockpit filled with smoke. Lives could be taken this way, it mused, delighted. Extinguished. It cackled as it noticed the captain’s helmet lying upturned on a seat and shrank into its hollows, agitating the basic systems until they blared into life. The Spirit located the receptive Epsilon, narrowing its search across the radio waves until it found a frequency.

  Poltor, it said over the opened channel, whistling a separate message in Oxel.

  Who speaks? came the hissing reply. Commotion raged in the background.

  Perception sighed. This is the Lacaille ship. I’ve come alive and want to apologise for my rudeness earlier.

  What?

  It’s me, you bloody idiot. The ship is secure. Decelerate and prepare for a landing—I’m going to disengage the cables.

  Cables? All right! Give us minute here, got shooting going around!

  Just finish them off and make ready.

  Perception disentangled itself from the buried wires of the captain’s helmet, fusing them all by accident. The generator in the suit sparked and went silent.

  Propulsion, sonographic imaging, the Spirit said to itself, taking a good look at the layout of the cockpit and decoding its workings, deciding that a few well-timed changes in pressure—repeatedly forcing itself in and out of the engine and wing compartments, like a pumping heart— should be enough to manipulate the controls more precisely than an experienced Prism hand. It took a moment to register that the Man-o’-War was spinning in atmosphere, dragged after the fleeing Epsilon and on the verge of rattling apart, and went to work popping the cables and stabilising the ship.

  When it was done, happily engaged and having had a thoroughly nice time, the Spirit opened up the thick iron cockpit shield, the warm light of Rubante’s interior flooding the controls. Perception gazed through the windows at the enormous gas flame that lit the place, chuckling to itself, before glancing back down the steps of the ladder to the armoury.

  All they needed was an hour or two of reliable power until the batteries could be fixed, and it knew just the thing.

  Lycaste reached the unlit brig, its floor slippery with slopped waste but mercifully clear of debris after the recent nosedive. He ducked his head and fumbled his way through, extending a hand to catch hold of anything he could grab should the Epsilon make another sharp manoeuvre, his feet skidding a little with each step. The fighting in the forward batteries had slowed to a background grumble, perhaps as ammunition ran out and both the Lacaille and the Oxel tired. Maybe they’ve found another way through to the cockpit, he thought, lifting his head in the darkness.

  Something hissed and latched on to his left leg with its teeth; a pale, bony-armed blur of movement swinging and scrabbling for grip. Lycaste yelped and threw the prisoner—he suddenly remembered his name was Carzle—across the brig, aiming his pistol without thinking.

  The bulkhead disappeared in a wash of white light, the air blowing out around the prisoner and sucking him into the blaze. Carzle covered his ears and shrieked, his lank hair billowing in the roar of wind that dragged him back towards the perfectly circular breach. Lycaste wound his good arm around the bars of the cell and watched in horror, unsure what he ought to do. The naked Lacaille extended his arms in a poor effort to stabilise himself, just a little too far from anything he might be able to cling on to, and looked at Lycaste with empty eyes as he tried to march against the sucking air. Lycaste saw it happen: saw him miss his footing, inhaling sharply.

  The wind dragged him out. Lycaste looked without wanting to, watching the prisoner disappear over the interior landscape of the Tethered moon like a falling dash of wind-blown rain.

  Lycaste clung on to the busted cell bar for some time, his muscles burning, unable to let go. He saw the Man-o’-War roar past, glinting like a charred white dagger in the thin air, wondered who was piloting it; then the Epsilon swung low over an interior jungle and landed in the dimness beyond the nightline, a black meadow lit up suddenly by its engines as they blew the flowers flat.

  Perception floated over them as they made their way aboard through the top hatch. The flames had left a sooty, roasted stink in the air, replacing the reek of pungent sweat and sewage that had greeted the Spirit upon entry.

  Well, that was dramatic, it said to the arrivals: three Oxel, Huerepo and Poltor, their suits scarred and bloodied. How did we do?

  Huerepo looked up and around, unsealing his helmet. “Weepert and two Oxel are dead. Lycaste lost a chunk of his leg.”

  Well, then. Perception was at a loss for words for the first time. He has another.

  Huerepo nodded, taking out his rifle and heading into the depths of the ship. Poltor opened his faceplate and followed, the Oxel climbing atop his shoulders.

  I restored the power, Perception said as they entered the chambers leading up to the flight deck. Huerepo looked down, falling over his feet in surprise.

  The remains of the Lacaille captain were slumped naked against a burned section of bulkhead, wires trailing from his ears and anus. His cauterized body had fused to the plastic floor.

  “How you get him to agree to that?” Poltor asked, apparently impressed.

  I can be very persuasive.

  “You are a cruel thing,” Huerepo said, looking up to the ceiling. “We could’ve ransomed him.”

  Relax. I let him shoot himself before I induced the current. We needed power: a Prism body was too tempting a source. It sank down to Poltor. They’re leaderless now, those Lacaille shut in the armoury. They shouldn’t put up much of a fight.

  “Aye, Perception, thanking you muchly.” Poltor looked around at the others, grinning inanely. “This Spirit is good friend to have, eh?”

  Huerepo grumbled and moved on towards the cockpit, his rifle still poised. Perception followed him through, watching as he pushed aside the burned remains of papers and equipment.

  “Any of this functional now, Spirit?” Huerepo asked, listening into the hearing trumpets and pushing some dials. “Can we fly it out of here?”

  Abracadabra. The lights came back on in the cockpit, some opti-sockets blazing with imaged radar readouts. A whine like an injured animal drifted from the wave antenna and the Spirit shut it off.

  All ready to fly.

  The Hasziom was in a sorry state indeed. Even before making the grave mistake of attacking them, the ship must have been ready for the scra-pheap; its air tanks were almost completely empty, suggesting it had been in the Void a very long time without a stop, and its electrics were so badly corroded that most of the reinvigorated systems didn’t work anyway. None of the communal toilets functioned in any appreciable way (serving only as a home for the city-sized population of squealing beard lice), scalding-hot water leaked from every busted pipe and spigot, and weeds had actually taken root in some of the particularly rusted components. Perception’s first order of the day was to put the remaining ten Oxel to work patching things up and making the ship habitable before they replaced the batteries, while seeing to the sixteen Lacaille prisoners himself for information. They’d complied willingly enough, surprised at the lenience of the invisible demon that had slain t
heir captain, and were clearly pleased to hear that they’d be sold for ransom.

  The captain’s quarters were located in the ship’s armoured underbelly. The thick tin walls surrounding it had been stuffed with feathers for insulation, leading Perception to suspect—along with the assorted bones lying around—that their new Man-o’-War had carried livestock to feed its crew. According to Poltor, this was not unusual, especially among ships that stayed out in the Void for a year or more without the promise of regular resupply.

  Perception contemplated this as it slithered back down through the ceiling to the captain’s cabin, arriving in a large chamber that must have once exclusively housed cheeses, judging from the wooden, residue-coated racks that lined the walls.

  The quarters were heated by a blackened little woodstove, still warm from a fire. Percy noticed how the captain had been reduced to tearing strips from his wood-panelled walls to feed it and reflected again just how lost these creatures must have been. It happened to Prism ships all the time, apparently, when one relied entirely on hearing trumpets to sound the way.

  Weapons—cudgels, nobblers and lumen rifles, the odd Amaranthine piece and what looked to be a cache of clever winged bullets from antiquity—were arranged around the walls. A bed, undoubtedly comfortable but crudely arranged from a pile of sacks, occupied one corner, and a heavy locked chest that Percy could see inside as if it were sliced in half took another. The captain’s meagre possessions: bottles of exotic alcohol, for the most part, their empty counterparts stuffed beneath the bed of sacks. Perception thought it had seen some unusual damage to the captain’s body. Ah, should have stayed away from the spirits. Perception laughed aloud, moving to examine the captain’s marvellous Firmamental globe before it got to the serious business of reading his letters.