A Shroud of Night and Tears (Beyond the Wall Book 3)

by Lucas Bale

  ‘You’re wasting my time and yours.’

  ‘So be it.’

  His puppeteer slipped back his sleeve and retrieved the module from his wrist. He did so slowly, deliberately, making Elias wait. A tactic, part of the man’s craft and designed to unsettle. He laid the module flat on the table between them, then tapped a sequence of icons until a holographic video image flickered above the resin screen. Elias watched the video, knowing the puppeteer studied him through lifeless eyes. The image played for only fifteen seconds, and time had done a great deal to make it more difficult for Elias to be sure, but still he had no doubt. The figure lay on a small, metal cot in a nondescript room that could have been anywhere in the known galaxies—but the face was clear and defined. It was twenty years older now, but Elias recognised it instantly. A face still contorted even in the echo of pain; a body that had been tortured and beaten. Alone in the flood of harsh, white light.

  His father.

  Elias bowed his head to hide the emotion that ignited inside him, but it was a useless gesture. His puppeteer already knew the value of his incentive. Elias looked away from the broken, aged face of his father, and, through the rush of guilt and fear, move after countermove played out in his mind like a preprogrammed reflex. He detested the man sitting across from him, of course, but he also recognised in him the devotion to the craft necessary to have gained this position. He had found what might be Elias’s only weakness, probably long before he ever lured him to that passage. It told him a great deal about the puppeteer.

  Of course this man would terminate both him and his father the instant he had what he needed—there could be no doubt of that. So what course was left, except the most dangerous? Something to bargain with, he told himself. Buy yourself some time and find something to bargain with. ‘I don’t have anything to tell you yet,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Elias.’

  Elias lifted his head and regarded him with the contempt he knew was expected; then he allowed fear to take over his expression. Desperation too, not all of which was a fabrication. ‘I’m close, but I don’t know enough. You must understand, whatever is at play is too complex. They’re adept at covering their tracks, but if you give me some time, I can find out.’ He allowed the desperation in his voice to have its effect, then he added, quietly and subserviently, ‘I know now what is at stake.’

  ‘Good,’ the puppeteer said without expression. Then he nodded, as though to reinforce his understanding. ‘I thought you might. Don’t take too long, Elias. I doubt your father can take much more.’

  Elias had to force himself not to run from the building. He strode quickly through the walkways, taking the Conduit as close to his canton as he could, then walking the rest. His master would be away this evening, and that was when he had to make his move. Elias had thought through every permutation, but now he knew he was left with only one option. There was little more he could do, little more he could discover while merely hovering on the periphery, not knowing the truth. Collecting information and analysing would only take him so far.

  He needed to be involved. He needed his master’s trust. And there was only one way to obtain it.

  It took some arranging to be sure he knew precisely when his master would arrive back at the residence. He would come to the library immediately to work; Elias knew that from his own experience of the man.

  So it was that Elias was stood at the broad, curved screen in his master’s library, staring at the holographic projection thrown from it, when his master returned. He had considered his likely reaction to this moment, seeing his master standing in the doorway, the light haloed around him and silhouetting his athletic frame, but hadn’t been able to predict the scale of the fear it would kindle inside him.

  He stared at his master, Third Consul of the Republic, one of the most powerful men outside the Quorum, but he didn’t move. For a long tense moment, the two men stood silently.

  ‘Why are you here, Elias?’ his master said eventually.

  Elias straightened and took a moment to loosen his suddenly rigid body. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he said.

  ‘I think you know why.’ The Consul walked into the room, the warm glow from the lamps playing across his face as he moved. Behind him, Elias saw another man holding a pistol. His face was freighted with fear. When he spoke, his voice trembled, and immediately Elias recognised it. The man he’d overheard a day earlier.

  ‘You must not be sentimental, Consul,’ he said. ‘There are dozens of others I can select who will fill your aide’s responsibilities. Loyal men.’

  The Consul ignored the man and continued to stare at Elias. ‘I asked you a question, Elias.’

  Elias returned his gaze, although in truth all he wanted to do was look at his feet. The guilt swept through him. ‘I needed to know.’

  ‘Why?’ his master asked quietly.

  ‘Why are we talking like this?’ the man hissed. ‘He will betray us.’

  ‘Quiet, Carsten,’ the Consul said, not looking away from Elias for a moment. ‘Elias, tell me why.’

  ‘I know what your plan is. I know what you intend to do.’ Elias was almost breathless as he spoke the words. He wasn’t sure his legs would continue to hold him steady. He doubted he had ever been so afraid.

  ‘Do you?’ His master smiled thinly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what do you say about it?’

  ‘You can’t possibly think you’ll succeed.’ Outside there came the whine of a gunship. There were always patrols, an ever-present feature of Theian life, yet to Elias at that moment, he reckoned they were surely coming for him.

  ‘What is it you think we are doing, Elias?’

  ‘Don’t let him say it—’ Carsten began. The pistol shook in his hand.

  ‘I told you to be quiet!’ The Consul turned to him, cutting him off. His lips flared—a momentary crack in the pristine calm—and then he turned back to Elias. ‘Elias?’

  ‘You intend a coup. To take over the Quorum.’ It was the only explanation Elias could offer; he could think of nothing else that made sense. But even that seemed impossible. Even more so if other cantons were about to withdraw their support from the Consul. Did he even know about that?

  ‘Do you trust me?’ his master asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Elias replied. More than you trust me, he thought. And I think maybe you are right in that.

  ‘But you think we would fail?’

  ‘I do.’

  The Consul’s eyes bored into him. ‘In all the years you have known me, Elias, have you ever known me to fail?’

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘Is it? Tell me, Elias, do you love the Republic?’

  Elias hesitated. Eventually he said, ‘I love this canton.’

  ‘And humanity?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Elias shook his head, not comprehending. What is this about?

  ‘Do you love humanity?’

  ‘We are as we always have been—capable of great things, but…’

  The Consul’s eyes flashed, burning like flames. ‘Do you think the Republic—the Quorum and the Magistratus—serves humanity?’

  Elias hesitated again. His body stiffened. Was this being recorded? Was he about to incriminate himself? Would they come through the door and arrest him? The whine of the gunship was still nearby. Books vibrated on the shelves. Was this all some elaborate ploy? He was speaking to a Consul! His lips were dry and his throat was suddenly raw. When he spoke, it was in a choked whisper. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I need you to say it.’

  ‘You know what they would do—’ Elias’s eyes flicked to Carsten and then to the pistol in his hand. The man’s face was riven by anger and fear. Were he to ever found out about the puppeteer, he would not hesitate to use that pistol. Not for a moment.

  The Consul’s bright eyes darkened. ‘Say it.’

  ‘No. Humanity is not served by the Quorum and the Magistratus.’ Elias closed his eyes and saw Idris’s broken bo
dy on the polished stone of a passageway. But what other option is there?

  There was silence in the library until he opened his eyes. His master stood directly in front of him now. He placed his arms on Elias’s shoulders and looked at him as he had done that first day they’d met, in this same, quiet room. There was defiance there, resolve. For a moment, Elias began to believe. That was his master’s power.

  ‘There is to be no coup,’ he said as he held Elias tightly. ‘You’re right—it would not work. Their hold is too great. We have another way, and I will tell you what I can. I cannot tell you everything, although you know I trust you. That’s the way this must operate—the less each individual knows, the better and more secure we all are. You of all people must appreciate that. But can you accept it?’

  ‘I am always your servant.’

  ‘That’s not good enough, Elias.’

  Say what they need to hear. ‘I have always protected you. I believe in you.’

  ‘From this moment, there is no going back.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let us give thanks. We are all afraid, Elias. Hold on to your fear. It may just keep you alive.’

  C H A P T E R 26

  GANT HAD avoided the tiny room that had once been his cell on The Flame of Tartarus, spending his time since they left their planet in Kayt’s arms instead, in Sawyer’s old quarters. He’d buried thoughts of Nikolaj, trying to ignore the whispered voices of the ghosts that stalked him, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the ashen faces of his people disappearing like sand in the wind. And he’d known, in the cold sweat of his nightmares, that he would eventually be compelled to go down to that tight little room and face his guilt.

  Abraham had not revealed where they were going, and for a while, Gant had been in no shape to ask. But when they eventually breached into a new system—when Abraham led Gant to a ship lit only by the flickering of a fire, and a meeting with a freighter tramp and his crew—it had quickly become clear that Abraham intended to leave Gant’s people in the care of strangers Gant neither knew nor trusted. Fury built inside him. He would not abandon them. When he followed Abraham away from the freighter and back to the Tartarus, Gant had absolutely no intention of going along with whatever Abraham intended.

  But then, back at the Tartarus, Kayt had emerged, the rest of his people behind her. She’d hugged him tightly and stroked his face. ‘I can take care of them,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll be waiting for you when you return.’

  She wouldn’t listen to his remonstrations.

  He couldn’t say when Abraham and Kayt had spoken—perhaps while he was asleep one night as they travelled through the tunnels—or what Abraham could have told her to make her insist that Gant leave them. But she did insist; and as he looked into her eyes, he saw the determination there. This was what she wanted. For them, and, he believed, for him.

  And so Gant had left with Abraham on the Tartarus; a crew of only two. Abraham had said very little—only reassuring Gant that his people would be safe, but that he and Gant had work to do to ensure that safety. After that, Abraham had returned to his usual reticence.

  And in truth, Gant had almost been grateful for this. He avoided Abraham for their first two days alone on the Tartarus, keeping to himself, trying to work through his guilt and grief. It churned inside him, a conflicted mess of hate and confusion—a sweeping sadness that threatened to overtake him without Kayt’s steadying influence. When Nikolaj’s young face came to him in his sleep once more, this time standing arm in arm with Papin, her own expression bitter and accusatory, he knew the moment had come.

  He found himself down here, his throat dry, a wearying ache across his back.

  The tiny room weighed heavily on him, just as it had when he’d left it, and there was so little light shed by the flickering emergency bulbs in the passage outside that he could barely see into it. He was vaguely aware of cold pricks of sweat creeping across his face, aware that he wasn’t breathing. In the pit of his stomach, a new anxiety swelled. He stood staring at the silent pools of shadow that beckoned him inside, and he shivered despite the overbearing heat of Engineering nearby. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the bed on which he had lain for so long. In the back of his mind, the distant echo of the breach alarm cried to him, as if he could actually hear it amid the hum of the engines.

  Without warning, he was on his knees. He couldn’t remember falling, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. His hands were shaking. The room became a blur through the tears gathering in and then falling from his eyes. A familiar lightning storm of swirling light, a pastiche of a tunnel’s breach, began to eddy around him. It swelled and churned like the ocean in a storm, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by it. He fought to control himself as he drowned in the stark, too-real memories of the fleet, of the Tartarus and its prison walls surrounding him. Nikolaj’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, accusing him, and Papin’s followed. The broken, charred bodies of his people, his family, left behind—abandoned to the mountains of that alien planet. No time even to bury them properly. To honour their sacrifice, to thank them for giving the rest their freedom.

  Where do we go now? he thought. What must I do? How can I protect them when I am not even with them?

  He leaned forward, placing his hands on the warm metal floor, then pressing his forehead against it. Something hard stuck in his throat, making it difficult to breathe, and all he wanted to do was collapse and lie there. The wretched tears came freely now, and his chest heaved as he gasped for air.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered finally.

  He allowed himself to give in to that surge of emotion, but only for a little while. Eventually, he forced himself to his feet and breathed out long and slow. No more, he told himself. You’ve had your moment. There’s no more. Get on with it.

  He closed the door to his cell and climbed away from it as he had always done.

  He found Abraham on the bridge, sitting in Fahad’s battered old chair, working through the ship’s navigational charts. His fingers slipped quickly and easily across the console—more efficiently than could ever have been said of Fahad—and Gant wondered how familiar Abraham was with ships like this one, and where the knowledge that fuelled those darting fingers came from. He knew so little about Abraham; all his preconceptions of who the small man was had been shattered during the battle to take the freighter and the events that followed. Yet still he had left his people to journey with this man he hardly knew; this man he certainly could not yet bring himself to trust.

  ‘Where are we going, Abraham?’ he said as the blast door wheezed shut behind him.

  The small man did not turn, but remained focused on the console. ‘Our journey is nearly complete, but to your people, you have been gone longer than two days.’

  It wasn’t any kind of answer. ‘How much longer?’ he asked.

  ‘Weeks. Perhaps a little more.’

  Gant closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘But that’s what you want, isn’t it? For things to play out the way you want them to?’

  Abraham’s fingers stopped abruptly, and he turned to face Gant. His face was still expressionless. ‘The tunnels, when located close together, have a minor relative effect on subjective time, which is almost imperceptible. However, as the distances travelled through the tunnels increase, the effect of relativity increases exponentially. Time runs differently, comparatively. Days will pass subjectively for us, but weeks will pass for your people.’

  Gant rubbed his eyes. ‘How far are we going?’

  ‘Another cluster of star systems, way beyond the regions of space you know.’

  ‘Why? When do you intend telling me what’s going on, and who you are? I’ve trusted you, done what you asked, but you kept the Tartarus from me, from all of us. People died because of it. The survivors from our colony are now with people I neither know nor trust. I’ve taken a lot on faith and ignored
my anger. I’ve been patient. I think I’m entitled to some answers.’

  Abraham motioned to the second pilot’s chair and watched Gant sit. He set down a mug of hotleaf in front of Gant and then began to drink from his own.

  ‘This is what I missed most on that planet,’ he murmured.

  ‘Abraham. Why are we here?’

  The small man studied Gant’s face, as though he were searching for something, a reaction perhaps. ‘I watched you for a long time,’ he said. ‘I tried to understand you—to determine whether you were the right choice for us. I knew that, eventually, I would be forced to explain some very difficult concepts to you, and I had to know how to help you understand them. But now I don’t think there is any easy way to explain it. To prepare you for what you have to do. And we don’t have much time. As I said, when we return, some weeks will have passed. Final preparations will be underway.’

  ‘Preparations for what?’

  ‘A war that humanity cannot possibly win.’ Abraham said this without a flicker of emotion on his plain face, as though he might as easily have been describing the weather, or giving Gant the time of day. Gant was about to reply, to demand to know what he meant, but instead he forced himself to wait and allow Abraham to fill the silence.

  ‘All civilisations, even the most prodigious, seem to progress similarly. They begin as small communities, harvesting whatever resources their world can offer them. They require shelter, so they learn to build structures that will protect them from the negative effects of the climate. They require sustenance that they then consume to create the energy they require to exist. Procreation is a physical imperative to propagate their species. Physiology follows a similar pattern across the universe, because the laws of physics are constant across time and space. If a civilisation cannot learn to survive and then flourish within its own environment, with whatever resources are available to it, it will fail. It will wither on the vine and become extinct. It is a truism to say these physical rules exist everywhere.