Angela Strange: Legend of the Arc-Walker

by Mick Fraser

  ~ ABOUT THE AUTHOR ~

  Mick Fraser was hatched in 1981 against the better judgement of his parents. He left school with little fanfare, and has worked in the playground industry and as a freelance video games writer all his adult life.

  He lives in East Anglia with his wife Alydia and their four hatchlings, Bailey, Noah, Oscar, and Emily.

  Angela Strange: Legend of the Arc-Walker is his second novel.

  ANGELA STRANGE

  LEGEND OF THE ARC-WALKER

  A NOVEL BY

  MICK FRASER

  ANGELA STRANGE: LEGEND OF THE ARC-WALKER

  Originally published in Great Britain by Michael Fraser.

  Copyright © Michael Fraser 2017. All Rights Reserved.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The Author asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work, not to have this work altered in a prejudicial way and not to have authorship of this work falsely attributed.

  Conditions of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contact information

  Email: angelastrangenovel@gmail.com

  Follow on Twitter: @AStrangeNovel

  Cover art & Angela Strange logo by Lee Johnson © 2017

  ~ ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ~

  Thanks to test readers Dan Murphy, Sylvia Sturgess, and Dave & Andrew Coleman for providing insight and feedback. Also to Geoff Holland for helping me create that scene.

  Special thanks to the hugely talented Lee Johnson for the inspired cover design and artwork.

  ~ DEDICATION ~

  To Alydia & the Fraser Bears, with all my love. One day we’ll be living high on a hill somewhere, and this will all be just a distant dream.

  ~ CONTENTS ~

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: ANGELA

  PART TWO: THE SHADOWSTAR

  PART THREE: A HAND-MADE SKY

  PART FOUR: THE RELIQUARIES

  PART FIVE: THE RESONANCE ENGINE

  EPILOGUE

  “Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the universe, or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.”

  ~ Isaac Asimov

  “Any sufficiently advanced technology would be indistinguishable from magic.”

  ~ Arthur C. Clarke

  “What the fuck is that?”

  ~ Angela Strange

  PROLOGUE

  FIRST, THERE WAS nothing; only endless space as deep and as black as anyone could imagine, pierced by tiny pinpricks of light that glittered like scattered diamond dust on sable. A casual observer, hypnotised by the relentless scale of the cosmos, might not even notice the first ripples that appeared out of nowhere, as though the curtain of night was fluttering against a sudden wind. Had there been anyone to hear it or any way of measuring it within a vacuum, there might have been a quiet sound, like the sound of a glass jar opening for the first time. The nothingness crackled, rippled, cracked, ripped – and the Jackdaw burst out of Phase-shift in a flash of colour and swirling vapour.

  On the command deck, Ellys Drenno had to grip the safety rail with both hands as the scouter came to an abrupt, almost violent halt. He straightened his hat, cocking one irritated eye towards the security camera above him. “Steady, Diz,” he warned, though there wasn’t much threat in his voice.

  “Apologies, boss,” the To’ecc pilot replied across the intercom. “That was hardly a textbook shift.”

  “No shit.” Drenno thumbed the touchpad below him, and the command console display flickered and flashed, buzzing with static as a glowing blue holocast image unfolded in the lightsphere. “So,” he muttered to himself in the soft azure glare, “where did we end up?”

  The world displayed in the sphere was designated as ‘Class 9’, but the info box-out told Drenno everything he didn’t need to know. His fingers spider-walked across the touchpad. “Dizzy, where the hell are we?”

  The pilot’s initial response was nothing but an emphatic whistle. Then: “I forget: where did you say you got these coordinates?”

  “You wouldn’t approve if I told you.”

  “You’re probably right. OK, let’s see... We’re roughly five-hundred hyperspans from the Centre, according to the navigrid. Hold on. That can’t be right.”

  Drenno swore, crossing the room to palm the porthole shutter control. The metal plates groaned in protest for a moment before flicking open. The target world was right there, blue and green and wreathed in cloud and storm. It was far enough away that he could see a single moon, grey and pitted, half in shadow, in shallow orbit. There were synthetic satellites, too; a few hundred, he reasoned. So the indigenous weren’t still living in caves, at least.

  “Five-hundred spans? That’s twenty-five thousand light years, Dizzy. And then some. We’ve barely been gone a day. Run it again.”

  “I just did. Twenty-five thousand, four hundred and forty-seven light years from the Centre. That’s almost forty-three thousand from the Reach, by my count. That conduit was… unique. Hyper-compressed, maybe.”

  Drenno didn’t reply right away. He rested his head against the thick glass of the viewscreen and sighed. Whatever the High Sceptress was looking for out here must be worth a fortune. “That’s why there were no pre-made Warrens leading here,” he said at last. “That’s why it had to be a blind shift. Can we get back?”

  “That’s never bothered you before.”

  “Diz...”

  “I locked the conduit’s signature. We’ll be fine as long as we don’t linger. But why here?”

  “Well, that’s the mystery.” Drenno turned from the window and walked back to the command console. From the pocket of his black duster he produced a red and gold data-key, which he placed against the touchpad. The image of the world slid sideways, and beside it a second image appeared, this one rapidly cycling through various items. Drenno saw random pieces of technology, weapons, vehicles, alien flora and fauna.

  “So what’s the deal here?” he asked Dizzy. “What do we know about this place?”

  The intercom hissed. “We’re in the Leth System; locals refer to it as ‘Sol’. Surrounding systems are mostly uncharted. Nine worlds, one inhabitable: this one. One indigenous human species, several hundred billion non-human life forms. The indigenous call it ‘Earth’, AEGIS calls it ‘AF-87162’.”

  “As poetic as ever. The humans here – are they space-faring?”

  “Negative. Based on their current rate of technological advancement, they’ve another hundred local years before they even break system.”

  Drenno grunted. “Then they won’t see us coming, at least.”

  “Correct.”

  The command console beeped, and the search image changed from blue to green. Drenno removed his hat. “We’ve got something.”

  The image turned slowly, but what it revealed wasn’t what he was expecting. It was neither a weapon nor a device, nor some ancient alien treasure that would secure his crew’s retirement.

  “Well?” Dizzy prompted.

  “Shit.”

  “Shit? Is that good or bad? Sometimes you’re unclear.”

  In lieu of an answer, Drenno tapped the touchpad again, sending the image up to the flight deck’s command console.

  “Oh, so shit means bad this time,” said Dizzy. “What does Tess Evayne want with a human girl from some backwater world forty thousand light
years away?”

  “I thought this was supposed to be some kind of weapon, Diz. Illith won’t be happy.”

  “I’ll let you tell her.”

  “Thanks.” Drenno thought for a moment. “Know what? I’m curious. I want to know the answer to your question.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Rathe says whatever it is, if Evayne’s looking for it then it’s important. Not just lucrative – important. The broadwave we got these coordinates from was high security, Diz. This is black-band stuff.”

  “Well then, let’s go and get it. Her.”

  Drenno sat down, dropping his hat on the console. The last thing they needed now was more attention from Evayne. Or AEGIS, for that matter. They’d been off the radar for almost four years, and there was decent coral in piracy these days. They didn’t need more trouble. He glanced at the console, tapped the touchpad so the image paused with the girl’s head facing directly towards him. She was pretty, early twenties, healthy. He sharpened the image, filled in the details: dark hair and eyes, like his own, but lighter skin, a deep tan. She was almost striking. And there was something in the eyes – something he hadn’t seen in years. He was about to reply to Dizzy when the pilot spoke first.

  “Boss? There’s a... complication.”

  “Isn’t there always? What?”

  “I’m seeing an Aethir trail, a few days old. It’s an Exethan stalker. Evayne’s people are already here.”

  Drenno swore. “Well that tears it,” he hissed. He grabbed his hat and sprinted upstairs to the cockpit where Dizzy sat facing an open viewscreen.

  Drenno slid into his seat beside the To’ecc. “Give me the stick. If there’re Exethan here she’s in trouble.”

  “So we staying or leaving?”

  “We’re going down there to get her. Strap in.”

  Beyond the viewscreen the Earth turned gently on its axis, its inhabitants blissfully unaware of what kind of horror was heading their way.

  “Find the stalker’s signal. It’ll be close to wherever they are. We’re going in fast – if they haven’t found her yet, we might still have time.”

  “And if they have found her, how long do you think we have?”

  Drenno sighed, sliding the accelerator all the way forward in its cradle. “Not long enough, Diz. Not long enough.”

  PART ONE

  ~ANGELA~

  Of all the wondrous and diverse peoples of the Reach, humans fascinate me the most. It is small wonder that my ancestors favoured them so, such is their resilience and integrity even in the face of great adversity. The Ri’in may be longer-lived, the Endrani stronger and the To’ecc more industrious, but it is humanity that must strive harder and, because of their disadvantages, overcome more.

  From The Melrasi Reach: A Study of its Peoples and Cultures, by Rucius Kaius, High Scholar, Marthus Academy

  1823/2Cy

  CHAPTER 1

  ~NO SUCH THING AS A QUIET DRINK~

  FROM HER SEAT in the corner of the bar room, Angela Strange watched the trio of drunken louts over the top of a Tia Maria that either wasn't working hard enough or wasn't what she needed. They had been cussing and singing for over an hour, ever since their fifth round of tequilas had kicked in. Her granddad, the ex-copper that he was, would describe them as fairly nondescript. Two were bald, one was balding, all three were in their late-twenties; workmen from up North somewhere Angela guessed, based on the accent and matching football shirts. They were tattooed with various clichéd tribal designs that they couldn't fathom the meaning of, and they'd already broken one pint glass. Gus Marriot, the Ferrier’s rugged, grizzled little landlord, was tolerating it because they were spending money like a trio of Sheiks.

  So far they hadn't looked Angela's way. People didn't, generally, but she was in the back corner anyway, opposite the door. When they went to and fro to the toilet or the front porch for a smoke, they missed the quiet Asian girl in the shadows.

  Usually she sat at the bar because she liked talking to Gus about his old war stories; and regardless, the Ferrier was empty most Monday nights. Tonight she sat in the corner because the last thing she needed was anyone talking to her. She could have stayed home, of course, but the second to last thing she needed was to be alone. Coming up third were these mouthy shits.

  The target of their “jokes” was currently the couple on the opposite side of the room. Angela knew one of the girls, Tabitha, a pavement artist she passed on the way to Soho most mornings. The other was Tabitha's latest conquest from the look of it, a woman maybe ten years older, much more straight-laced, with neither the tattoos, piercings nor bright red hair of the younger girl. Angela might have suspected she was Tab's mum, had they not been giggling, whispering and stroking each other all night.

  Well, most of the night. Since around 11, the leering idiots at the bar had been making lewd comments about threesomes and gangbangs. The older woman was clearly uncomfortable; Tab, bless her, was acting like she couldn't give two shits. Unlike Angela, though, Tab only worked on the streets; she hadn't grown up on them. She was tough, proud, true to herself, used to dealing with the ignorant, but she couldn't feel what Angela could feel, she couldn't sense the change in current.

  Gus could. He'd been staring at the louts for several minutes, waiting for them to go that step too far. For now, they were arseholes, but mostly harmless arseholes. That was slowly shifting. One of them ordered a smooth, but the tap was dry, spitting frothy dregs instead of caramel-coloured booze. Gus offered the man something else, but he stuck to his order. The landlord shot Angela a brief look.

  “Actually,” he said calmly, “I think you've had enough, fellas. Might want to think about supping up and getting on.”

  “No, I'll have another one, ta.” The balding one spoke. He was the biggest, the loudest.

  “Let me rephrase it,” Gus said, “I ain't serving you no more, so on you go.”

  One of the others tapped his mate's shoulder. “We have got work tomorrow, Peeley; we might as well be going.”

  Peeley shrugged him off. “What are you, me aunty? I'll know when I've had enough, 'cause mummy dyke here’ll start to look worth a sling.”

  Tabitha and her friend looked up. The older woman picked up her handbag, ready to go. Tab put a hand on her wrist.

  “Well come on, gents,” Peeley slurred at the two women, “it's time to go. Pub's closing. How bout we give you a lift back to our digs and you can give us a show? Damo'll pay you, won't you, Damo?”

  “Pub's not closing,” Gus replied. “But you boys are done.”

  Peeley laughed. “So you'll serve a pair of rug-munchers – pardon me French, gents – but you won't serve us? Got an arrangement have you?” He winked repulsively.

  “Grow up!” Tab snapped, at which Peeley bridled.

  “Suck it!” He turned back to Gus. “Drink. Now.”

  The landlord narrowed his eyes as he dragged his cricket bat, Eleanor, from under the counter. She was chewed up, dented, heavily stained, but reliable. Peeley leaned back. “There’s three of us. Stop embarrassing yourself, old man.”

  “I said out!”

  Peeley got off his stool, snatched an empty lager bottle off the bar and smashed the base off. “Come on then!” he shouted.

  Angela watched Gus’ reaction. He had run the Ferrier for twenty years, and he’d thrown out worse than this lot on his own, but Angela knew as well as the louts did that Gus was in his late sixties, and being fearless wasn't the same as being invincible. Unfortunately, Gus had been a Royal Marine for the whole of his twenties and thirties, and he didn't have a whole lot of wick left on his powder keg. With a last look at Angela, he swung the bat cross the bar-top, smashing the glasses and bottles there to smithereens. Twinkling glass cascaded, sparkling like tiny fireworks in the light from the jukebox.

  Peeley, Dutch-courage replacing common sense, leapt off his stool and started shouting, trying to coax Gus out from behind the bar. The old landlord bit, flipping the hatch and coming around sw
inging. The one called Damo threw up his hands, backing away. Tab and her friend rose, but Peeley wheeled on them.

  “You tarts stay put. I still want my show.”

  Angela sighed, and stood. Peeley caught the movement from the corner of his eye and turned. “Where you goin', darlin'?” he laughed, despite Gus and the bat and Damo dragging on his arm. “Never had Indian before.”

  “I'm not Indian,” she said coldly.

  Another guttural laugh. “Well whatever the fuck you are then.”

  Angela sized him up, glanced at Gus. He didn't want her involved, but knew she'd get involved anyway. Her granddad wouldn't be happy though, and tomorrow wasn't a day for arguing.

  “I'm having a quiet drink,” she said, her voice steady. “So are my friends. He's right: you've had enough. Now leave before I call the police.”

  “The police?” Peeley mocked, “I'm shittin' meself now!” As he spoke, Damo snatched the cricket bat from a distracted Gus, taking the old man by surprise. Peeley brandished the bottle. “Now get me a fucking drink before you get hurt!”

  Time seemed to slow almost to a stop. The louts, galvanised by their ringleader's boldness, squared up, forming a wall in front of Gus, whose defiance and tenacity wasn't going to be enough. Tab's friend clutched her handbag close to her chest, as Tab bared her teeth like something feral. Gus set his jaw, ready to go down fighting, and Peeley raised the bottle. Whether he was preparing to lunge or only threatening to made no difference, because Angela did the only thing that made sense in the situation: she took three steps round her table, and hit Peeley with a right hook so hard it spun him into the bar.