Angela Strange: Legend of the Arc-Walker

by Mick Fraser

  Angela connected the dots. “So I’m a guinea pig?”

  Illith narrowed her eyes. “A what?”

  “Um, an experiment. You want to see what I’m capable of, because you don’t know.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well I don’t know how to arc. I’m sorry.”

  “We will try a few things. If they do not work, I will test more extreme stimuli.”

  “Like what?”

  Illith slid a device from some unseen holster at the small of her back. It was black and flat, and it hummed audibly when she clipped it to one of the silver bracelets she wore. “I will shoot you with this stinger, and if you do not arc out of harm’s way, you will not walk for at least a standard day.”

  Angela’s stomach lurched. She shook her head, loosened her arms again, bounced up and down a few times. She realised she was overdoing it when she caught Illith’s eye. “Right,” she said, exhaling. “Let’s do this, Angela. You can do this. Just teleport. Simple. Command the atoms of your body to convert into light, travel a short distance at the speed of light, then convert back again. What could be easier?”

  “Less talk,” Illith commanded. “Concentrate.”

  Angela nodded hurriedly. Okay. She closed her eyes, trying to remember how she had felt when she arced before. She focused on the pain in her arms, the sense of motion, but it brought nothing to mind. She thought for a moment, seeking the common denominator, and then swore when she found it: stress. Possibly fear. Maybe having a gun pointed at her would help… She opened her eyes. Illith looked unimpressed.

  “Before,” Angela explained, “I arced when I was scared, under pressure. It was uncontrollable, like a defence mechanism. Octopus ink.”

  “Doth’jek,” Illith snapped, which Angela was able to translate by inflection alone. “In times of stress we reveal our true nature. In times of calm, our nature remains the same, but is masked by our conscious self. Peel that away, and arc to the spot.”

  Angela took a deep breath, concentrating. Nothing happened and she bit her lip, frustrated. It was like trying to roll your tongue. Some people could and some couldn’t. Angela was the latter, so though she knew theoretically what she had to do, there was something fundamental, something intrinsic and ingrained, stopping her. People don’t teleport – a fact that was currently being screamed at her by every cell in her body. A fact that even the threat of violence – and, coming from Illith, a threat that was very likely real – couldn’t unhorse.

  People don’t teleport.

  But Angela had... She had. Several times. And it wasn’t really teleporting, was it? It was energy conversion and very fast travel, both very difficult, neither theoretically impossible. So what was the key? Self-belief? Trying really hard? No. It wasn’t like solving a maths equation, she realised suddenly. It wasn’t about cognitive thought and concentration. How could it be? It was primal, born in stress and trauma and fear, not in control or focus. It was something born in the moment. It had more in common with landing a difficult jump in contemporary dance, with avoiding a punch. It was instinctual. It had to be. Think it, do it. Nothing in bet—

  Pain, heat, nausea, motion.

  Angela blinked, stumbling forward to collide with the wall. She fell to her knees and glanced back to where she had been, some distance beyond Illith, who now, with her finger still pointing to the spot of light on the floor, slowly turned her head and said, “You missed.”

  Angela clawed her way up the wall, groggy, dizzy. “No shit...”

  “Try again.”

  She wiped her sweating brow with the back of her hand. “What’s the point? I can’t control it.”

  Illith turned to face her fully. “Point of fact: you just did control it. You turned it on, you turned it off, now it’s merely a question of differentials. Distance, time, effort, expenditure of bodily resources, pain threshold. We push ourselves to learn our limits. Why else would we, and how else could we?”

  “It hurts...”

  “Immaterial. Don’t you wish to know what you are capable of?”

  “For God’s sake, no!" Angela shouted, sliding back down the wall. “I want to go home! What part of that isn’t making sense? There are people who need me, my granddad... God. Oh God. He’ll be beside himself. Mark, Sarah... You can’t do this to people!" She fell silent, though she had more to say. More to scream and wail and beat her fists about – but what good was it doing? Had they saved her? Or was she kidnapped? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was angry.

  Illith put her head on one side, poking the fire. “Are you finished?”

  “Not fucking nearly!” As Angela spat the words she felt heat bloom inside her, a swirl of light and energy – how a candle wick might feel, or a match head, as it bursts into flames. She travelled again, past Illith, back to where she had begun. Her knees hammered painfully on the sancto floor.

  “Better,” Illith said, though it sounded like admonishment rather than praise. Angela fell forward, panting. She felt like she’d just tumbled off a merry-go-round.

  “Up,” her trainer-cum-tormentor ordered, “we’re not done yet.”

  For what seemed like hours, Illith continued to push Angela, forcing her to arc, then to rest and regain her strength for a few moments before continuing. She made little progress; her arcing was still clumsy, inconsistent and imprecise, and it took a gruelling toll on her body. After a veritable age she’d had enough. Her energy levels were all but depleted and her head was beginning to swim. “Enough,” she said weakly, “I can’t keep at it like this all day.”

  “We’ve barely even started,” Illith told her, then paused and looked past Angela as Rathe appeared in the doorway.

  “That’s enough for today,” he said. Angela slumped down, felt his hands pulling her up. Illith slowed as she strode past them towards the door.

  “The potential is there, Rathe. But until she has a reason to be here, she might as well be dead already.”

  As Illith left, Angela pushed Rathe off and tottered back a few steps. She lost her footing and swore when her backside hit the hard floor. She looked up at the older man. "I want to go home,” she said, wretchedly. “Whatever it is you people are into, it doesn’t concern me.”

  He knelt in front of her, taking her hand gently in his. He glanced at the doorway, as if to make sure Illith had gone. “I wish that were true, dearheart," he said softly. “I wish you weren’t important, and I wish we knew why you are. We will find the answers, and one day, Fates willing, you will go home. But today, Illith is right. You need to know your limits.”

  She wiped her eyes with her free hand. “You were listening?”

  “The whole time. I don’t expect you to trust me, Angela. Or any of us. But I do expect you to believe the evidence of your own eyes. You are not insane. You are not dreaming. For whatever reason, you are a part of our cause now; your fate is tied to ours. You’re a fighter, that’s obvious to all of us, but you feel you’ve got nothing to fight for – so consider this: Evayne is evil, purely evil, and she knew just where to look for you. You go home, she’ll find you again – or she will make sure that no one else ever does. An old friend once told me that if you’re going to fight for anything, you might as well fight for everything. And she was right.”

  Angela said nothing. In response to her silence, Rathe reached up and unclasped something around his neck. “The same person gave me this.” He produced a small locket on an odd-coloured chain. It was metal, but in the light it had an indigo hue. He held it out and Angela took it, turning it over to inspect the circular adornment. There was an engraving on the back in a flowing script, almost like Arabic.

  “It’s the last verse of an Avellian proverb,” he said. “Hope in the light; destiny in the darkness’.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Rathe chuckled. “You know what? Why don’t you tell me, once you’ve figured it out?”

  She chuffed. “So you don’t know then.”

  He smiled, fastening
the chain at the nape of her neck. “Oh, I know, dearheart. I know better than most. Here. Carry it beside your Saint Anthony. After all, you’re one of us now.”

  She felt tears welling and swore under her breath. “Granddad would like you," she said, forcing a smile despite herself. “You two would have a lot to talk about.”

  “I hope I meet him one day, Angela, truly.” With an audible effort he rose to his feet, offering her his hand. “You have much to fear, little one, I won’t lie to you. But you are not alone, I promise you that.”

  CHAPTER 12

  ~A PRISONER OF CIRCUMSTANCE~

  AS ANGELA AND Rathe followed the green line back from Illith’s gymnasium towards Habitat, she found herself almost absently linking arms with the old man. She knew why, of course, and so did he, but neither voiced it. After the few days she’d had, the comfort of a father figure was the least she could ask.

  She noticed a quiet hum as they walked, a gentle, idling rumble that quaked through the soles of her feet. It reminded her of Ash, the family’s huge chocolate Labrador against who’s broad, shaggy belly she used to snuggle when she was younger. The way his heartbeat felt against her ear, the way his stomach would rumble and his lungs would rise and fall in a steady, growling rhythm. The Shadowstar felt alive.

  The narrow corridor was dimly-lit now, which, Rathe explained, indicated that it was early evening. It was an odd concept; if you looked out of any window at any time it was night, but Angela supposed this was how you maintained a sense of normalcy when you lived in deep space. There must have been ports of harbour, though, places to get out for a few weeks, walk on solid ground, breath fresh air. She was about to ask Rathe when a sudden scream made her jump. It came from a room just ahead and she instinctively rushed forward, too quickly for Rathe to stop her. He managed to catch her hand as she reached for the lockpad. The door’s viewing window was open, however, and she peeked through.

  In the diode-lit darkness beyond the door Angela could see that the room was almost empty save a workstation stocked with various tools that she could barely make out, and a single bed, upon which lay Gage. Her light strips had dulled to a faint white, and she had neither sheet, pillow nor duvet to soften her bed. She lay on her back, one leg drawn up, head turned away from the door and resting on her bicep. She was restless, and switched position twice in the short time Angela was watching. Above her, the small robot called Winston hovered like a nurse.

  Angela drew back, turning to Rathe. “She has nightmares?” she asked quietly. “I thought she was a… robot.”

  Rathe took Angela’s arm, gently leading her away from the door. “Don’t let her hear you say that,” he warned. “That’s an archaic term.”

  Angela made a mental note. “So what is she then?”

  “She’s an Auton. Seventy percent organic. All her major organs are human, technically, and encased in a beratium exo-skeleton. She’s also quite possibly the last one of her kind.”

  Angela looked back over her shoulder. “That’s so sad. What does she dream of?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you. Most Autons were bred for burden, some for pleasure, then retrofitted for a conflict they didn’t start. Most were killed in the Freelancer War, or recalled and destroyed after it.”

  “Why wasn’t Gage… destroyed?”

  Rathe patted her hand. “Because I saved her, to make a long tale shorter. She was scheduled for disconnection, a criminal out of necessity, like the rest of us. I spoke to her, and saw more humanity in her than in any human I knew.”

  “Really? I didn’t get that yesterday.”

  The old man chuckled, slowing his pace as they approached Angela’s quarters. “Gage is complicated. After the Freelancer War, she escaped destruction for several years by running black-band shadow operations for AEGIS. When they were done with her, they put out a kill order. I happened upon her after she’d been apprehended, and pearled more than a few palms to save her.”

  “Why?”

  Rathe pressed Angela’s lockpad. “Half her memory was gone. And what she could remember haunted her, Angela. It haunted her more deeply and more traumatically than such things would haunt an organic. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  “And her tattoos? What do they mean?”

  “That’s the Tetra. It’s kind of like an Auton holy tome. When they freed themselves from what they considered to be slavery, many of them had the Tetra carved into their carapace. You’d have to ask Gage what it means to her, but I would advise against it.”

  They went inside, and Angela touched the light switch. Someone had put a jug of bright green liquid on her table, beside a plate of fruit and... chak, was it? She looked puzzled.

  “Six-Tails,” Rathe said. “His primary concern is your health.”

  “Really? Shouldn’t he be on-hand to stop Illith shooting me then?”

  “Illith has her ways.”

  “So she was bluffing?” Angela asked, relieved.

  “Oh no,” Rathe replied. “More often than not, when Illith says she’s going to shoot someone, she shoots them. Sooner or later.”

  Angela looked slightly mortified and Rathe grinned, crossing the room and pouring out two beakers of the green liquid. “Tem juice,” he said. “It will help your body wind down, then you can sleep. Right now, that’s what you need. Your body is still getting used to the Amp.”

  She took the offered cup and wandered over to her bed. She was unsurprised to see that someone had made it. Rathe remained by the table near the door, sipping his drink. She watched him for a moment, wondering what it must be like to live your life on the run. She remembered something from earlier that she wanted to question.

  “Where are we going? Drenno said he knows a guy who knows a guy...”

  Rathe placed his glass carefully on the tabletop, turning it gently this way and that. “The fellow’s name is Paryx. He’s an old friend, in so far as people like Drenno and I have friends, anyway. He’s the one who gave us the broadwave that held your coordinates.” He noticed her expression. “Sorry. A broadwave is a signal, digital information.”

  “Like an email?”

  “If that’s what you call digital messages where you come from, then yes. He sent word through a mutual acquaintance that he has a second broadwave to sell us. We are going to meet him.”

  “Right.”

  “Drenno may suggest you stay on the ship for this one.”

  She chuffed. “Not bloody likely. You didn’t bring me all this way to leave me on the ship. I’m stuck out here, remember? Or am I a prisoner?”

  That hit a nerve. She could tell by the way he stiffened. He hid it immediately though, the smile returning to his face. “No, you are not. The last thing I want is for you to feel trapped here.”

  “But I am.”

  “By circumstance, not design, I assure you.”

  “I believe you,” she said, and she did. “So where are we going? Where is this… Paryx?”

  His grin broadened, but now he had a twinkle in his eye. “Do you have a term for something sudden and shocking that somehow prepares you for things to get much, much worse?”

  “Huh. A baptism of fire.”

  “I like the sound of that. We call it Tankred’s fall, but it means the same thing. Where we’re going is exactly that – a baptism of fire, if you like. It’ll make everything you’ve seen so far remarkably… ordinary.”

  “Oh, good,” she replied. “Because I was starting to worry we were getting low on weird.”

  Rathe laughed as he turned for the door. “No chance of that, dearheart,” he said. “None whatsoever.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ~HOSTILE MAKEOVER~

  THE NEXT MORNING, Angela joined Rathe for a breakfast of rembah and chak, the former of which she’d had the strangest craving for since waking up. She had barely finished filling her platter from the refrigeration unit when a burst of static on the tannoy made her jump. It was Drenno. “We’re outside of Haze’s neutral zone, people. Gage, Six-Tails, Rathe
, Angela, we’re hitting shore in twenty. We’ll take the Jack.”

  Angela sat beside Rathe at the wide glass table. “The Jack?” she asked.

  He smiled. “I keep forgetting you’re new. The Captain is referring to the Jackdaw, the Shadowstar’s ship-to-shore vessel.”

  “Huh. A little ship inside a big ship.”

  “Actually, we have three. The Jackdaw is our main run-around, while the Sparrow and the Snike are merely mining tugs. Ostensibly, at least. In point of fact, we tend to use them for smuggling.”

  Angela grimaced, popping a piece of fruit in her mouth. “And you’re the good guys, right?”

  “Mostly,” Rathe laughed. “I suppose it depends on your standpoint.”

  She smiled with him as she swallowed, but a thought occurred and her good humour evaporated. “It would be nice to think I’m not on a ride-along with a bunch of villains. I mean, how would I know?”

  “How indeed? I’m afraid you’re just going to have to trust us, Angela.”

  Gage entered by the far door, slinking in like a cat looking for mischief. The Auton had a way about her that put Angela on the back foot, a predatory demeanour that was altogether different to the low level thugs and ruffians she’d crossed paths with growing up. She walked around like she owned everything in her reach and everyone else was beneath her. Rathe must have noticed Angela staring, because he said, loudly, “Don’t mind Gage. She always gets cranky this long without shore-time.”

  Angela flustered a little. “I wasn’t—”

  “Staring?” Gage snapped from across the room. “Yes you were, sweet-cakes. So would I if my only choice was between my arse or Snow-top’s craggy old mug.”

  Angela leaned in. “Cranky?” she whispered. “She seems perfectly lovely to me.”

  Rathe smiled, but it was half a wince as Gage rounded on them, leaning back on the counter. “You need to get a few things straight, honey-tits. First of all, I’m not pleasant to you because I don’t like you. Second of all, I wouldn’t try to change that because I don’t trust you either. And third: Autons have pin-sharp noise-cancelling aural receptors, so I can hear your piss-poor attempts at humour from three levels up. Storms, old timer, where’d you dig this one up?”