The Shadow and Night

by Chris Walley

  “Lord, I commit myself to you,” Merral said quietly. He realized he had never properly said farewell to Isabella or his—

  The world stopped.

  Sense, feeling, thought, time, life. All ended.

  At first there was only light. Brilliant light, the light of creation, a light that seemed to penetrate through rock and bone and eyelids. There was nothing else, and it seemed to Merral inconceivable that there ever had been anything else or could be anything else. Then there was the noise. A deafening noise on every frequency from the lowest vibration to the highest screech. A noise that bypassed the eardrums to pummel every bone, muscle, and organ in his body. Then there was the wind: a wind as solid as flesh that tore at his clothes and whipped at his hair. A wind that seemed to want to blow him off the ledge to Herrandown.

  Gradually, the light, noise, and wind ebbed away.

  Merral opened his eyes slowly and rubbed them to see around him a bizarre winter landscape of snowlike ash lit by a diffuse and flickering red light. A pale figure coated in a fine gray debris coat was squatting beside him stabbing at the diary.

  Over the ringing in his ears Merral could—somehow—make out Vero yelling, “Transmit! Transmit!”

  He looked up to see a billowing column of dust high above them, glowing in lurid oranges and yellows and casting strange, pulsating shadows over the landscape. In the background, he could hear the diary echoing the message. “Emergency! Under attack from non-Assembly forces. . . .” It was getting through! “ . . . have beam weapons capable of damage to ships. Emergency message ends!”

  Vero turned an ash-plastered face toward him. “It’s gone successfully!” he shouted with a sort of manic triumph. In the background Merral could hear the message being repeated. Vero was speaking again now, his voice seeming distant and distorted. “You look awful, Merral. Truly awful.” He reached out and carefully touched Merral’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Merral answered slowly, shaking his head to try and clear the noise out of his ears. “I think so. But you look like a corpse.” Suddenly he heard a voice, crackling and varying in volume, coming out of the diary.

  “Merral D’Avanos, Assembly ship Nesta Lamaine has received your message. Fireball seen. Captain is evaluating your situation now. Are you okay?”

  Vero handed him the diary. Merral wiped the dust off the screen and spat to clear his mouth.

  “Yes. Yes. Just about. We are on the south end of the cliff—Uh-oh!”

  The screen was flashing the “Unable to transmit message” sign. He showed it to Vero who merely shook his head. “As I expected. A temporary overload. Well, we got our message out.”

  The diary crackled to life. “We have lost your signal. Captain advises we are coming down to you. Standard Operating Procedure is to do a Farholme orbit first. This will give two hours—”

  “Two hours!” Vero shouted.

  “—before we can get to you. Just hang on. Out.” The signal light faded.

  Merral tabbed the transmit button and shouted at the slab, “Two hours is too long! Forget Standard Operating Procedure! Make it faster!”

  But the diary refused to transmit.

  The gloom was descending again as above them the eerie light was fading. Merral was aware of Vero waving his hands in protest. “Can’t they get in faster?”

  “I know! The only ship around, this Nesta Lamaine, must be in high orbit or something. But I’m surprised. . . . Can we survive?”

  Vero blew his nose. “Maybe, but only if there are no more attacks. You’re sure you are all right, Merral? There’s blood on you.”

  In response, Merral tried sitting up. He ran his hands over his chest and felt them come away in a disgusting mixture of dust and blood. “Praises, I think it’s not mine.”

  “Let’s get back on the main ledge then,” Vero said. “We need to see if our attackers have gone.”

  They scrambled slowly back onto the main rock ledge of the plateau. The light from the dust cloud had almost dissipated now, but they could see that the once flat surface now bore a gentle circular depression a half a dozen meters across that was glowing a dull crimson color. They were alone on the summit.

  In the growing darkness, Vero’s voice was quieter now. “Those ape-creatures are very agile. To get up the northern face that we thought was impossible was an extraordinary feat.”

  “Yes,” answered Merral slowly, suddenly feeling incredibly weary. His throat was dry, his ankle hurt, and he felt unspeakably sickened by what had happened.

  As the night seemed to slip back around them, Vero coughed and spat. “Ugh! Dust! Incidentally, Merral, do you realize that you may have done what Thomas wanted you to do?”

  “Sorry? Oh, you mean kill whatever had taken Spotback? Well, if it was one of those—and I hope there aren’t many more—then maybe I did just that.” In fact, he found the idea of little comfort.

  For a few minutes they were silent. Some of the dust slowly settled around them, but much remained in the air, dulling and diffusing the light from the stars. Eventually, Vero spoke slowly. “Assuming—just assuming—they can rescue us, we must do some urgent thinking.”

  “You mean what happens next?”

  “Yes. What we do. Earth must be told: told fast and told securely.” But he said no more and fell silent.

  A few minutes later, Merral’s eye was caught by a moving beam of light cutting up through the dusty air from the ground just to the west of them. Carefully, a new dread rising in his exhausted mind, he and Vero picked their way slowly over the ash-draped rocks to the western edge of the hill. Not far away under the trees, a light was drifting leisurely toward them, swinging from side to side as if searching out a pathway for feet between the rocks and tree roots. Behind it, Merral could just make out dark figures, and from their height and gait he knew they were not human.

  Vero sighed. “More trouble. Not our rescuers.”

  “Yes,” Merral answered, surprised how drained of emotion he felt. “They will be here in a few minutes. Watch, stand firm, and hope.”

  “The hope bit is getting harder to do. And nearly two hours before the ship arrives. . . . I wish now we had got a full message out.” Vero gave a little grunt. “Huh, I really thought we were going to make it.”

  Then he reached out and patted Merral affectionately on the back. “But let me say—while I have the chance—that you did wonders here tonight. Remarkable. That challenge. Epic stuff. Worthy of a painting in the style of the Thirteenth Millennium romantics: ‘Forester D’Avanos Faces the Ape-Creatures Alone.”

  For a brief moment, Merral felt like pointing out that a really authentic picture would have to be done in shades of blacks and dark grays. But he hurt too much.

  Vero seemed to drift away into silence, and Merral, torn by his own memories of the day, tried to put his thoughts in order. They had a few minutes yet; the moving light had yet to approach the edge of the trees. Merral prepared himself to crawl to the edge and hurl rocks down until—inevitably—he was overwhelmed.

  Then, abruptly, the light went off. In the distance below, near where the beam had been, Merral could hear voices, but what they said, and even whether or not they were human, he found impossible to tell. He began to crawl toward the cliff edge, wondering if he could find any rocks in the darkness to throw.

  “Listen!” whispered Vero.

  At first Merral could hear only the ringing in his ears.

  Then he was able to make out a faint whistling noise in the air coming from the south. He stared into the darkness. Whatever it was could not be the rescue ship; that had to be ninety minutes or more away on the other side of Farholme. For a moment, he saw nothing.

  Low in the southern sky the hazily twinkling stars were obscured by a shape that was growing larger every second. Merral, seized by a feeling of stark horror, stared at the blackness as the expanding silhouette rose above the cliff.

  Then from his belt his diary bleeped and a dry male voice echoed around. “T
his is Assembly ship Nesta Lamaine! Prepare to board immediately! Beware hot external surfaces!”

  As the shadow eclipsed more stars, four columns of white flame burst out like waterfalls of light, throwing up dust into the air. Blinking, his ears adjusting to the newly unleashed storm of sound, Merral could now make out the stained white-plated hull of a general survey craft. He wanted to cry for joy.

  The ship tilted and lowered itself down vertically, thin legs extruding through the pulses of shimmering heat. A smell of steam and fumes and waves of warm air rolled over them. Above the glare of the engines Merral could make out the green light of the cockpit and the dull orange glow of heat around the stubby wings. A line of cold blue light opened in the underside of the ship and grew as the hatchway ramp lowered to within a handbreadth of the surface. Stumbling, trying to shield their eyes from the dazzling intensity of the thrusters, Merral and Vero clambered up the ramp.

  “Go! Go!” shouted a voice, and a firm hand grabbed Merral’s arm and hauled him into the hold. The craft swayed and bobbed like a boat on rough sea, the ramp closed, and Merral felt vibrations under his feet. Then he heard a succession of noises: the hissing of pistons closing the hatch, the tolling of a warning bell, the clamor of a siren, and then the thudding bellow of sound as the thrusters kicked in.

  A big man in the deep blue Space Affairs uniform pushed Merral into a seat and strapped a belt around him. Then he was pressed first down and then sideways into the bucket seat as the ship began a series of violent motions, tilting sharply, first one way and then the other.

  “Emergency maneuvers,” grunted a low voice behind Merral but he was too deep into his seat to see who it was.

  Without warning, a brutal rattling noise sounded underneath them. The ship wobbled briefly and, for a second, the lights dimmed. A new set of alarms sounded. With renewed force, the ship seemed to be thrown across the sky, until at one point Merral was on his side and all round him he could hear creaks and the sound of equipment sliding about in lockers. As the wild lurching motion continued, Merral twisted his head and caught a glimpse of Vero slumped in an adjacent seat, covered from head to toe in pale dust, a dirty hand over his mouth and a look of utter misery on his face.

  Then it was over.

  The ship stabilized, the sirens faded out, and the background creaks died away.

  “I feel sick,” mumbled Vero.

  “Not surprised! That was rough.” The cheerful voice came from behind Merral. “But can you hang on while I check out your friend? He looks bad.”

  Whom is he referring to? Merral looked at his jacket where the crimson blood was now brown. The crew member, a stocky, bearded man with green eyes, took his wrist and applied a diagnostic unit to it.

  “It’s not my blood,” Merral protested, as he felt the DU’s probe gently penetrate his skin. “Except for around my right ankle,” he added.

  “Good. Good, you can talk, and better, it’s largely not yours. Otherwise I’d have to start putting some replacement in.” He glanced at the readout. “Your vital signs are good. But you’re dehydrated.”

  A door slid open and a slender figure with short auburn hair in a night blue uniform slid in, one hand cupped around an earpiece.

  “Welcome aboard the Nesta Lamaine,” Perena said in a quiet voice. “Oh, are you all right, Merral?”

  “Well, Perena Lewitz!” Vero said, a smile cracking the dust on his face. “We are greatly obliged.”

  “Perena! I should have guessed it was you,” Merral added. “And yes, I’m fine. I think.”

  Perena glanced at the crewman. “Matthew, is he really all right?”

  “Yes, Captain. Pretty much so. It’s largely surface blood. But he’s dehydrated.”

  She smiled with frank relief. “Then I should have made you wash first. And do excuse me if I don’t even shake hands.” Then she frowned. “But then whose blood is it, if it isn’t yours?”

  “Ah. I think—” Merral caught Vero’s gesture and fell silent.

  “Perena,” Vero interjected, “we need to see your sister about that. I think she knows something. But it’s an odd story. And a worrying one.”

  Perena wrinkled her nose. “You don’t look much better, Vero. Matthew,” she ordered, “get some water for these guys to drink and perhaps a damp cloth to wash with.” She looked at them again. “I guess a hot shower with disinfectant is what’s really needed.”

  The crewman nodded assent and left the hold.

  “Many thanks, Perena,” Merral gasped, realizing how glad he was to finally be off that besieged hill and in the ship. “That felt like an interesting bit of flying.”

  “I agree,” Vero said, “even if, at the time, I may not have appreciated it. Where did you learn it?”

  “It’s called the Yenerag Maneuver. It’s pretty specialized and normally envisaged as being for the evacuation of people from active volcanic sites—”

  Perena raised a hand and seemed to listen to her earpiece. “Roger!” she snapped. “Continue on present course and speed, but watch those strain warnings. Maintain the self-sealant pressure.”

  As she spoke, Matthew came in with water.

  “Sorry, guys. It’s busy time here. Matthew, can you run up to the bridge as soon as you can? Amira may need help. I’ll be up in a moment.”

  He gave Merral and Vero water and cloths and then left. As he did, Perena turned her cool slate blue eyes on them.

  “Thank you for the appreciation. My computer is less amused and is telling me we have suffered major damage to the port lifting undersurface and minor to the starboard. From the nature of the damage and the speed of the impact, the computer has deduced that we were hit by multiple small meteoroids. It is clever enough to be puzzled as it realizes that we were flying in normal altitude near the ground and that meteoroids do not fall upward from a planetary surface. It is not clever enough to deduce the explanation. And, in truth, neither am I. It might be useful to know what hit us.”

  Merral looked at her. “A beam weapon of some sort. High temperature, portable. Hot enough to melt rock.”

  The eyes widened and she shook her head in incredulity. “Seriously? My ship really was fired on?”

  “Yes. As we warned you.”

  Her face acquired a look of astonishment mingled with unease. “And what does that mean?”

  “Mean?” Vero shook his head. “I wish I knew. To start with, it means we need to have a meeting. You, us, and Anya. As soon as we land. Somewhere quiet.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Fine. The self-repair systems are in operation and we are heading at high subsonic speeds—which is as fast as I dare—to Isterrane. I can’t really spare you the time anyway now. In fact, I’d better get back to the bridge.”

  Vero, rubbing dust off his face, spoke again. “What have you said to anybody so far?”

  “Nothing much. I’ve been too busy. Wait. . . .” She raised a hand again, her absorbed face showing she was getting another message. “Okay, Amira, I’m coming up. We’ll get Matthew to check the R3 coolant levels manually. Initiate clearances for possible emergency glide landings at every strip between here and Isterrane.”

  She looked back at Vero. “Well, I’ve said we’ve got you. I’ve been a bit busy to do anything else. I’m afraid your alert about non-Assembly forces is being treated as evidence of delirium. Like the Youraban shuttle pilot who—oh, a century ago—was adamant that he was being attacked by thirty kilometer-long space octopods.”

  Vero nodded. “I remember that. May I suggest, Captain Lewitz, that you try to land as far out of sight as possible. Encourage the crew to keep silent. We don’t want a panic.”

  “A panic?” Perena arched thin eyebrows. “No. I suppose you may have a point. I’ll call Anya and have her meet us.”

  She turned to the door.

  “Perena?” Merral asked. “Just one quick question. You said you would be two hours in arriving. You were a half an hour. I don’t understand.”

  She reached for the guide ra
il and turned to him. “I didn’t think it was delirium. And the mention of ‘non-Assembly forces’ and ‘weapons’ alarmed me. So, at first I felt it best not to say when I would arrive, and then I thought harder and decided that it might be safer—and quite legitimate—to mislead.” She looked faintly amused. “I have, after all, played a lot of old-time chess.”

  “So you lied?” Vero asked, raising a dusty eyebrow in alarm.

  “Vero, please!” Perena winked at him. “If you remember my communication, I told you that the Standard Operating Procedure would take two hours. I ignored the SOP and just corkscrewed in. Not pleasant, I may say. And risky, and we probably lost a centimeter of ablatative material off all my underside plates. So, do thank my crew. At worst, I misled you and your . . . enemies.” She frowned at the last word.

  Then a new message came on her earpiece and she winced. “And even then it was a near thing. But”—and she gave a heartfelt sigh—“by the King’s grace, we did it.”

  An hour later, after a landing marked by a series of bounces and an odd slewing motion, they were on the ground at Isterrane.

  16

  As the ramp to the compartment swung down, Merral and Vero got to their feet. There was the smell of fresh, clean air with the hint of the sea, and through the doorway, Merral could see the black of the fused basalt runway below glinting under the lights of the landing strip. Then there was the sound of feet running up the gangway, and a red-haired figure in sweater and trousers appeared. A freckled face, blue eyes blinking in the light, peered up at them.

  “Hi, guys!” Anya called out, her voice soft and concerned, and Merral sensed a seriousness to her that he was unfamiliar with.

  “So, you had an interesting trip,” she whispered, staring at him and Vero with her eyes open wide.

  With a strange throb of emotion, Merral realized that he was very pleased to see her.