by Gary Gibson
However, Ursu had in his mind heard the words translate into the language of the gods. He now felt as if he could understand anything anyone said, anywhere in the world.
The sick child already seemed – how to put it, Ursu wondered? – more connected to this world again. Ursu hoped that meant it was saved from the Blackface. The child’s spirit – or whatever it was Ursu registered – fluttered in his mind’s eye, but with renewed vigour. Below it lay a dark place, a place where—
Ursu reeled back, both physically and mentally, from that glimpse of some great abyss, a place of forever darkness falling away into eternity. Shecumpeh, he enquired, is that where we go when we die? He would rather live a thousand times a thousand years than ever face it.
The shaman lunged forward, putting one hand on Ursu’s shoulder, and reached past him to touch the child’s forehead. He then stared at Ursu, his long snout quivering.
Yé came forward, gesturing the shaman to move back. He picked up the child gently. ‘Ythe?’ he said. ‘Ythe, can you hear me?’
Tiny eyes opened, staring up at Yé’s broad face, then closed again. The child was soon asleep. Ursu registered the conflicting emotions in Yé’s face.
Let me go, Ursu wanted to say, but Yé’s face darkened as if he could see the plea forming in Ursu’s mind. He turned away, still clasping the child in his arms.
A few hours later, Ursu was allowed to retire to his own tent. Despite having saved the lives of several members of the tribe, he was still to be kept under close guard. Now he was too valuable to them to be even given to Xan, he thought sourly, feeling exhausted and mentally drained. He tumbled back onto sour-smelling furs and slept. He woke again shortly before dawn, sure that he had heard someone calling his name.
‘Ursu? Priest Ursu?’ The voice sounded familiar. It’s Ree, he thought, and looked up to see her head poking through the tent flap. As he glanced beyond her, into the dim approaching half-light, for a moment of elation he realized his guards were gone.
Ree produced a knife from her sack-like shift. It glittered in the dim light filtering into the tent, and Ursu felt his throat go dry.
She crawled in through the entrance, then stood over him.
‘Tell me how you did that – made the disease go away.’
Ursu licked his lips. ‘The . . . power is in the god. It doesn’t come from me.’
She stepped forward, with a glassy look in her eyes. ‘Even my father Yé can’t do that, and they say our tribal leaders, they’re like gods.’ Her face screwed up. ‘But if some filthy, flea-ridden city type can heal someone, just by touching them, that can’t be true, can it?’
‘I told you, I didn’t do it,’ Ursu protested, feeling desperation creep into his voice. What in Shecumpeh’s name did she intend to do with that knife? ‘Where are the guards?’ he said.
She stared at him for a moment as if he were a complete imbecile. ‘They’re all off celebrating and getting drunk. It’s because you cured all the sick. They’re all recovering. Even my father is getting drunk.’
Ursu stared at her. Only she now stood between himself and freedom.
Then he remembered Shecumpeh. He would still have to find the god.
‘Are you frightened of me?’ she asked. ‘When they found you by the river, you were dead, did you know that? That makes you holy, doesn’t it?’ she said, holding the knife out in front of her.
There was a crack of thunder on the horizon. It faded, echoing across the great, icy plains. Something about it . . . didn’t sound right.
Ursu realized Ree had heard it too. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, glancing over her shoulder at the tent flap behind her. She turned, fumbled her grip on the knife, and it fell between them.
He made the tiniest gesture, like a minute jab of his hand in the direction of the weapon.
Ree squealed, and dived for the knife.
He kicked her in the head as hard as he could. She collapsed, making an oof sound. Ursu stumbled to his feet, and fled into the night, the sounds of her cursing floating in the air behind him.
He looked around to find himself surrounded by tents, their campfires burning, but the wastes of the tundra lay moments away. It would be dawn before long, which would make it easy for them to track him. This was hopeless, thought Ursu. He didn’t stand a chance. A great crack of thunder reverberated across the plain, drowning out the last of the drunken revelry.
‘You!’
Ursu whirled around, to look into the face of one of his absent guards. He came staggering towards Ursu, much the worse for some rank barbarian wine. ‘It’s you they want!’ he slurred, before falling face down in the ice.
Ursu gaped down at him. He could hardly believe he’d once been afraid of these people.
There followed another crack of thunder . . . but then Ursu realized what was wrong with it.
There was no lightning.
He glanced up to see the skies were perfectly clear, the sun almost ready to rise and cast its light over the world.
So where was the noise of thunder coming from?
The drunken guard’s fingers were twitching feverishly where he lay face-down in the snow. Blood pooled in the snow around him, flowing from a craterlike wound in his back. Ursu heard shouts and screams in the distance.
Ursu stepped back, his heart pounding. What in Shecumpeh’s name was going on here? Then he remembered the god. Nothing else mattered. He had to find the god.
He glanced down one final time at the guard, who was making little gasps as if trying hard to breathe.
More thunder pealed out across the ice. More screams could be heard. As Ursu ran between the tents, several of the tribesfolk ran past him, ignoring him completely. He had not failed to see the terror in their eyes.
It had to be Xan’s men. Ursu heard the sound of braying icebeasts. Running towards a fire, he realized it was a tent blazing in the dim light. A body lay sprawled half out of it.
Find the god, and then he could leave.
As he hurried on between the tents, tribesfolk went running past him, heedless of his presence. Another crack like thunder, but much closer, exploded somewhere nearby. Was this Shecumpeh’s doing? In his search, Ursu dived inside a tent to find a group of frightened children huddling there. As he entered another, a figure lunged forward, snarling. Ursu yelped and lashed out.
Another tent contained a bundle wrapped in furs. The furs had a distinctive pattern to them. He realized they were Yé’s furs, discarded. He pulled them aside to reveal the effigy lying on its side. With a huge surge of relief, he gathered the god into his arms.
Back outside again and, at the next thunder clap, he at last saw a spit of lightning. But not like any lightning he had ever seen before. Through the gap between two tents, a hundred steps away, a bright flash stung his eyes and Ursu sensed something hot zing past his ear. He ducked and ran at a low crouch, the effigy still cradled in his hands like a baby. He skirted the final tent, heading for the open tundra – and, he fervently hoped, freedom.
But the god was heavy in his arms, and he didn’t notice a hand snaking out to grab at one leg. Ursu lashed out with his other foot, but the restraining hand merely tightened its grip. Ursu looked down and straight into Yé’s maddened eyes.
The tribal leader half lay against a tent wall. ‘You brought them on us.’ He was panting hysterically. ‘You and your damned god, you brought the demons down on our heads, I hope the Shai make a meal of you!’
He released his grip and Ursu ran, fleeing the village of tents. He kept on running until sheer fatigue forced him to slow his pace. He could still hear voices floating across the half-frozen grass, sounding nearer than they really were. Not so far away, their outlines clear against the night sky, trees extended across the hilltops.
Then sounded the familiar slap-slap-slap of an ice-beast’s progress, its padded feet stamping heavily across the rough soil somewhere to his right. He ducked to the left, heading towards the trees at a slant that would take him longer to reach
them, but further away from the voices.
Then came the sound of clawed feet drumming on the earth and splashing through pools of icy water. Terror drove him on faster, faster towards the tree-line. At first, he couldn’t be sure they were riding for him, but now he was certain. The shelter of the trees was only seconds away now. He heard further shouting, soldiers calling to each other. He cursed himself for still wearing the distinctive robes of a priest. He would have to find other, less conspicuous garments whenever he next found the chance.
The god was so heavy that his arms were aching. Again there was the sound of that strange thunder, and something heavy splashed somewhere far off to his right. Ursu whined in terror, but he was almost there.
The din of the riders pursuing him sounded closer now, but the trees now loomed on the slope directly ahead. They grew in a tangled mass, their roots snaking over low ridges towards the pools of brackish water which lay below. Again, something zinged past his head, splashing ahead of him into waterlogged earth.
What had Yé said, that he hoped the Shai caught him? Those Pale Ghosts who forever wandered the ice in search of the unlucky and the lost. But surely that was just a legend, a story . . .
Finally reaching the trees, Ursu was nearly at the end of his endurance. He did not dare look back to see how close his pursuers were. He could only hope the terrain ahead was too dense and impenetrable to be navigated by mounted soldiers. There was just a chance he could still get away. His head thudded as if a hammer beat within it, and the arms that gripped the god were numb.
He pulled himself up between a tangle of ancient gnarled roots, barely able to hold onto the god with just one hand. Some kind of missile splintered the wood next to his hand. Ursu yelled with fear, hauling himself up onto higher ground. The ceaseless thunder followed him, under still clear skies.
There were ruins up here, great piles of stone that had collapsed long ago, gaping holes amid the walls which still stood, but Ursu didn’t have the time to stop and look. The whole desolation was overgrown, and infested with plants and trees so thickly entangled Ursu had trouble picking his way through them. Not much further, he thought, and then he could rest, just for a little bit. It was dark and dense up here, but the shouting and braying sounded more distant now. Perhaps they had turned away.
He collapsed against the side of a great tree, fungi sprouting from its half-rotten trunk, and waited, listening intently, as the sun slowly rose above the horizon.
After he had rested for a while, he moved on.
Elias
The Station corridors were in pandemonium. Elias steered a difficult course through them, thinking this must be what it was like on a sinking ship. He had a name, and a door number – but where was it?
He pushed down a narrow passage leading off one of the Hub’s main thoroughfares. He’d already witnessed a couple of fistfights during the several hours since he’d dealt with Eduardez. People were panicking, and the silver bugs were everywhere. They infested the Station on both the outside and the inside. He’d accidentally kicked one when it suddenly scurried out in front of him, but it had merely picked itself up and continued on its way. Some kind of machine, he realized, like the things he’d observed on his escape from the Jager.
He had to get back out there, rescue Trencher, whatever the hell they were intending to do with him. Elias was worried they were going to send Trencher back through the singularity. Why they’d brought him here in the first place was a mystery but, now that the shit was really starting to hit the fan, the only logical course of action for the Primalists was either to send him back to Earth or to move him further along the cosmic daisy-chain of Angel Stations. And if they did that, Elias knew the chances of him ever finding Trencher again measured roughly slim to zero.
He couldn’t allow that to happen.
His skin itched constantly, the sensation occasionally blossoming into something more akin to a dull pain. His left hand had developed a minor twitch, and he knew it was all brought on by the Slow Blight.
He found the right door number and pressed a pad in the centre of it. A small dull light illuminated next to the door, and Elias was aware he was being studied from within. ‘Miss Amoto?’ He waited another moment. ‘I need to hire your Goblin, Miss Amoto.’
A few seconds later, the door clicked open. Behind it was visible a narrow cot, a tiny chair and a desk, and beyond them a paper screen that probably hid the toilet or maybe a kitchen. Most of the available space was buried under luggage cases and scattered belongings. Kim Amoto – assuming he had come to the right place – stared back at him. Tall and gangly, in that weird way people who had been born in low-g environments tended to be. Though far from unattractive for all that. She wore soft loose trousers and a utilitarian-looking shirt that, nonetheless, seemed to show off her figure quite well. He could see a man, maybe in his early thirties, balanced precariously on a low stool in one corner.
He risked a sideways glance at the man, whose gaze, Elias had noticed, tended to wander to Kim when he thought she wasn’t looking. More than just friends, thought Elias. No, used to be. They weren’t that close now, perhaps.
Kim studied him carefully. ‘The Goblin’s not for hire, I’m afraid. In case you hadn’t noticed, everyone’s getting themselves off the Station.’ There was a sarcastic edge to her voice that almost made Elias smile.
‘I’m aware of that, but I’m in a hurry too. I’m prepared to pay well for it.’ Elias pulled out a credit chip and held it up so she could see. He then tapped a little blue square in one corner of the card, and made sure she could see the numbers scrolling across it. ‘That’s how much I’m prepared to pay into your account, Miss Amoto.’
Her eyes got bigger, but she stayed cool. ‘This job, how long is it going to take? And is it legal?’
‘It won’t be long, no more than a few hours. And I don’t really know if it’s legal or not. I suspect it depends on where you’re coming from.’
She looked at him sharply. The man – a studious-looking type – was watching their conversation with interest. ‘Who sent you?’ she asked, after a pause.
‘Bill did.’ And that had cost Elias too. After this, he wasn’t going to have much money left. ‘I think you know him.’
She breathed sharply. ‘Yes, I do. All right, then.’ She stuck her head out into the corridor and assessed the people hurrying past. She looked back at Elias. ‘Vincent comes with us,’ she nodded at the man behind her, ‘or the deal’s off.’
Elias examined him for a moment. He seemed harmless enough. ‘Whatever.’
‘Okay, here’s the deal. I want a drink in the Hub first. We can all talk there. Then you can tell us what you want to pay us for.’
Elias glanced down the long corridor, towards the Hub. ‘Those little silver things are everywhere now. I heard some people saying the Station might not survive more than another couple of days.’
‘Before it loses its integrity and starts venting atmosphere? Yes, I know. But I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Elias Murray.’
‘Okay then, Mr Murray, I don’t know how long it’s going to be before I get a decent drink again, so I want one last one in case there’s no more Hub by next week, all right?’
Elias shrugged. It made no difference to him.
Most of the drinking establishments along the main stretch of the Hub had already closed down, and it was clear that those proprietors left were grabbing what little business they could before they themselves abandoned ship. The three of them pushed off along the corridor without saying anything. The panicking expressions around them, the sudden disruption of so many people’s lives, said more than words might ever say. Elias felt some of that same fear clutch at him. The walls surrounding him could no longer be trusted to protect him, or anyone else, from the cold, vicious vacuum that lay beyond them. Maybe they only had minutes left, and he’d die without ever finding Trencher again. Maybe . . .
No, every smartsheet on board the Station seemed to be broad
casting emergency relays containing information about the ‘infection’, how the insects didn’t seem to be aggressive towards people: but the safety of the Station had been compromised, and people were being advised to find a way to get off or else subject themselves to a rigorous evacuation procedure designed to make sure this infection didn’t reach any ships still uncontaminated by it.
Elias had no intention of being taken anywhere on a military transport, unarmed and unprotected, if he could possibly avoid it. That meant spending money on hiring his own ship – and finding Trencher, whatever it took.
Elias felt ill at ease sitting there in an almost empty bar, watching the Station residents who had become refugees overnight hurrying past, sorting out the final details of their lives on board. Elias wondered if they’d ever have a Station to come back to.
He looked down at his hands, and saw they were both shaking. As he willed them to stop, the tremors eased just a little. Not much time left, he thought, but if he could do one thing right, just one thing, he would find Trencher.
He thought again of that face he had glimpsed through thick, shielded plastic, and he shivered.
As he glanced at Vincent, he realized the man had been staring at him the whole time. Not in a challenging way, but in a . . . in a way that suggested he knew more than he had been letting on. Maybe he was her business partner?
‘This is a strange situation.’ Vincent continued looking at Elias.
Elias nodded, not sure how to reply.
‘This job,’ Kim said. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Okay, I need to retrieve a friend of mine from one of the ships out there near the Station. He’s on board a cargo carrier, or he was the last time I saw him. I need you to take me out there so I can fetch him back.’
‘Hold it.’ She put up one hand. ‘Perhaps you aren’t aware of the quarantine rules they’ve imposed since this emergency started.’ Elias looked over her shoulder to see a tiny silver head squeeze itself out of an air duct. It dropped to the floor, and scurried away. Another followed it, and then another. Elias unclenched his jaw muscles and tried to force himself to relax. ‘No ships are allowed anywhere near any vessel that hasn’t already been hit by the infection. They’d shoot us out of the skies if we approached.’