by Lucas Bale
Eventually, Jordi asked her about the camp. Freya looked down at her food, her buoyant mood suddenly flattening. ‘They don’t talk about it much, my parents and the rest of them, but we hear things. We all talk. I think they want to protect us, but it’s worse not knowing the truth.’
‘What do they say?’ Jordi asked, a little too quickly. He heard the desperation in his own voice and tried to calm it. ‘What have you heard?’
‘There’s a war coming,’ she said. ‘Some of the others say it’ll be like the Second Cataclysm—men made mad by what’s out beyond the Wall and such. I think they don’t know shit. There are rumours, but no one really speaks about it. All we really know is that we have to leave our homes and go somewhere new. Start again.’
Jordi didn’t say anything. What was there to say?
The rest of the conversation turned to mundane, pedestrian details of camp life. Freya seemed unwilling to talk more about rumours of a coming war. Jordi barely took in what she said, only murmuring in what he assumed were the right places, and instead concentrated on his food.
When he had finished eating, they left the tent, and Freya showed him around the camp. Jordi came to realise that he was searching the passages between the tents for Shepherd and the preacher. He had hardly known he was doing it.
‘What’s wrong?’ Freya said.
‘What do you mean?’ he said, a little too defensively.
‘You’ve barely been listening to a word I’ve been saying since we ate,’ she replied. ‘I talk too much, I know, but you seem like you’ve been looking for someone.’
‘It’s nothing.’
She considered this, but she didn’t seem put off. From what little he’d seen of her, he doubted much of anything could put her off. ‘You came in on the freighter we saw a little while ago?’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly.
She nodded. ‘There’s a place in the camp,’ she said in a low voice. ‘We’re not supposed to know about it, but I see people coming and going from it. But there’s nothing in the tent at all—some beds, that’s it. I figured there must be more to it, so I asked around. You know what they said?’
Jordi shook his head.
‘Don’t ask,’ she said triumphantly.
Jordi was confused and didn’t know what to say.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you see,’ she said. ‘There’s something important going on in there. So if you’re looking for someone, maybe someone you came in with, they might be in there.’
Jordi stiffened, and she studied him, as though waiting for him to say something. But there wasn’t anything to say, except, ‘Show me where this place is.’
C H A P T E R 30
WHEN NATASHA first tried to rationalise what she was being told about her birth—that she had been deliberately bred to possess some physiological genetic aberration—she wanted to dismiss it as arcane and impossible. A ruse, or some complex manipulation she couldn’t yet fully understand. But in truth, she could see instantly it was real—and it terrified her. She glared at the strangers in the room, all of them shrouded in familiar haloes, shimmering auras of pale colour. How can I deny there is something wrong with me? she thought. When I can see it so clearly in front of me? When, in truth, I have known it from the day I was born?
Navigating the tunnels was a release for her, an easy escape from the torture of her memories and the dark voice behind her ears. The sweet whisper of the exotic fabric of space was the part of her life she had always treasured most—a high without equal. Yet she had also been a slave to it. The abuse of stim had come as much from the physical emptiness she felt when she was away from the tunnels as from the nightmares she still had when she slept. She wondered then if her DNA explained her overwhelming need to escape and explore as a child; whether running away from her father and brothers, and sleeping in caves filled with vermin, was in fact that foreign part of her manifesting itself, even as a little girl. Whether it was the last remaining subconscious indication that her mother had ever existed. However, those thoughts were soon replaced by others. Questions she needed answers to. How and why, of course, but most of all, by whom?
Does it explain why you’re a killer? she asked herself bitterly. Or is that something worse? Is that just who you are?
Perhaps it was all of those things, but it was her future too. Whatever’s left of it now. If this untidy little man was right—and the events that had unfolded around her over the past few weeks instinctively proved to her that he might be—then the Republic was about to find itself knee-deep in a war it would almost certainly lose.
The trapdoor opened above her as she considered this, and someone began to descend the steps. She stepped away, behind the makeshift stairs, to allow the newcomer space to drop into the room. He was less than halfway down when she felt the first nagging doubt; something in the way he moved, something that she recognised, but couldn’t place just then.
It was only when the newcomer shouted—a pained, animal sound that could only have originated from somewhere deep inside him—and then reached for his weapon, did she realise who it was. A cold wash of horror swept over her, burning her skin.
Skoryk! Before she could ask herself what he was doing here, before she could come to the inexorable conclusion that he must be here for her, in that split second, his pistol was coming up and levering outward towards Weaver.
No, he’s not here for me, she thought. He wants the Caestor.
But Weaver was unnaturally quick, as though he’d caught Skoryk’s arrival out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps he was prepared for it, or for any sort of threat. Maybe that was simply who he was. But whichever it was, by the time Skoryk’s pistol reached the zenith of its arc, Weaver was already moving. She had seen him fight, back on the planet, and she knew he could move more quickly than his age suggested. Swiftly, easily, he wrapped a long, muscular arm around the man nearest him, trapping his neck in its crook. Then he hauled him backwards. In his other hand he held a pistol, which Natasha realised must have come from his hostage.
Skoryk’s pistol levelled at Weaver’s face at that same moment that the Caestor’s weapon was directed back at Skoryk.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Skoryk said. Outwardly, he appeared almost calm, as if he had recovered his composure, but it wasn’t the first time Natasha had seen rage churning beneath his skin. She tensed instinctively. ‘No, fuck that,’ he said. ‘I don’t care. I want him dead.’
The small man at the head of the table canted his head slightly, and his brow creased into a frown. ‘Put your weapons away,’ he said evenly. ‘We don’t have time for this.’
Skoryk jabbed a finger in the Caestor’s direction. ‘He’s responsible for Jieshou.’
‘You’ve a short memory,’ Weaver said mildly, the stolen pistol still aimed at Skoryk’s face. ‘I was inside your place, with you, when it got hit. They were firing at us both.’
‘No,’ Skoryk said slowly, shaking his head. ‘Oh, you had me believing that then, but not now. You got away clean before they came to the caves. How did they know about the caves, kotwal? Unless you told them? Can you explain that?’
‘They hit the caves?’ The Caestor seemed genuinely surprised—Natasha could see it all over his face—but she knew Skoryk wouldn’t believe it. His rage wouldn’t let him.
‘Don’t you dare—’ Skoryk started, but the Caestor cut him off.
‘They killed everyone?’
‘A few of us escaped. The rest died in there. And I will make sure you know the names of every last one of them before I gut you.’
‘Whatever it is you think I did, Skoryk,’ Weaver said, ‘you’re wrong. When I left Jieshou, those that had survived the initial attack were alive. The privateers were heading for the city, not for your people. Whatever happened after that was nothing to do with me. I spoke to no one about what I saw in those caves.’
‘You’re a liar.’
Natasha saw the pistol waver slightly in Skoryk’s hand. She knew he wouldn�
��t be able to contain his rage any further, that he was blinded by it. She eased her hand under her coat and her fingers closed around her second knife—a small blade in a slim sheath, slid behind her belt. It was the length of her finger and little less than twice as wide. It would do.
Something inside Weaver appeared to snap. ‘It seems everybody wants to kill a Caestor. Well, I’ve been threatened to my face once already because of your little game, and it’s wearing on my patience. If you want to try to kill me, then let’s go outside now and settle your score.’
Skoryk’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Natasha crept forward, out of his sight, until she could almost hear his black heart beating; then she pressed the blade to the side of his throat. The moment he felt the coolness of its touch, he flinched. A single bead of sweat from his throat seeped onto the blade. So easy to kill him now, she thought. And he deserves it. She swallowed hard. Each time she blinked, Meier’s faceless body taunted her. No, you need these people, Natasha. You need to play this out.
‘Put the weapon down, Skoryk,’ she said. ‘We all have scores to settle, and I’m damn sure mine involves seeing your blood in the dirt on this floor. You screwed me, and not for the first time. But your man’s right. We don’t have time to fuck around.’
No one moved. Her lips were dry, and the air in the room felt tight and heavy. With her free hand, she scratched her throat. It had been two days since her last hit of stim aboard the Pronos. She’d been feeling light-headed and restless, and the room began to shake. Her stomach cramped. The familiar tremors in her arm came as she held the knife to Skoryk’s throat. A tiny rivulet of blood mixed with the sweat on the blade.
Weaver’s eyes narrowed, snapping from her to Skoryk. He can see it, she thought feverishly. He knows. Kill Skoryk now. End this.
‘Skoryk, put your pistol away.’ It was the small, untidy man who spoke from the head of the table. Natasha found his voice unnaturally calm, given the tension in the room.
‘You think you know him—’ Skoryk began, but the man cut him off.
‘I do know him, Skoryk. We’ve been watching him for more than a year, even parsing data from his implant. He isn’t who you think he is.’
‘You're wrong,’ Skoryk said. ‘He’s exactly who I think he is.’
Weaver glanced at the small man, then back to Skoryk. The pistol remained steady. ‘What do you mean, you’ve been watching me?’
‘Your noviciate, Horan, worked for me. You weren’t sure about him, were you, even before his last wire to you on Jieshou? So then, he wasn’t as careful as he thought. I suspected as much. It doesn’t matter now. The Caesteri and the Seneshal are both searching for you. If you’re no use to me, you’re a threat.’
He regarded Weaver carefully, but when he continued his voice was hard. ‘You should be fighting for a cause you believe in, like the people living in this camp. The Republic will fall, and what will take its place will almost certainly bring about either the oppression of mankind, or possibly even its extinction. If that doesn’t persuade you, by all means make yourself comfortable for a few weeks until we’re ready to go—it’s too much of a risk to allow you to leave now. Then you can see what’s left for you out there. Although I promise you, it won’t be much.’
‘There’s no decision to be made,’ Weaver said quietly. His arm fell from his hostage’s neck. The man backed away from him, watching him carefully. Weaver turned the pistol in his hand, and, holding it by the barrel, offered it back to its owner. ‘I understand what’s at stake.’
Skoryk glanced sideways at Natasha from the corner of his eye, unwilling to move his head, and said quietly, ‘It’s fine, Natasha. You can put the blade away.’
He lowered the pistol very slowly and holstered it. She dropped the knife away from his throat and slid it back behind her belt buckle.
He turned to face her and smiled that same nasty little smile he always did. ‘Nice to see you, as ever.’
‘Fuck you, Skoryk,’ she said.
‘None of this has anything to do with me,’ Shepherd said. ‘Or my ship. Maybe you’re right. Maybe our star systems are about to change ownership, but I don’t see that anyone can stop that. You try to run, and Peacekeepers and Caesteri will hunt you down as hard as they’ll fight any invasion. That’s the way it’s always been. I want no part of it. The Republic’s territory is a big place. I can find some quiet corner of it to retire to.’ He turned away.
‘I expected you to say that,’ the man said. ‘I had hoped you might see the truth of what we all face, but perhaps you need something more.’
‘I do see it,’ Shepherd said. ‘I just don’t think it can be done.’
‘Because you’re a coward. You should have seen things differently after Herse.’
‘I’m a survivor.’
‘No, you’re anything but that.’ The man set the sculpted marker he had been holding onto the table and straightened. Everyone in the room turned to stare at him. ‘Each of you should understand how critical this is, even to your own future. The threat to mankind is inestimable. But if you can’t see the truth of your position, allow me to make it clearer.’
He looked Shepherd straight in the face. ‘Your freighter is considered as important by the Magistratus as it is by me. They know what it can do. Every cruiser, frigate, gunship, and customs officer will by now have been given an alert for it. You’ve been seen with the preacher, and they know fine well who he is. You’ve killed Peacekeepers. When we’re gone, whether we succeed or not, the Quorum will assume you to be one of us no matter what you tell them. Do you think I can afford to ignore the threat you would pose to us? Do you still think you can just run away? Where to? How will you get work? The men and women in this camp are some of the most influential people in the whole of the Bazaar. You of all people know what that means. They will ensure you never again benefit from a single contract from this moment on. The only person who can protect you now… is me.’
‘Walk with me,’ the small man said outside the tent, his arms clasped behind his back as he began to stroll along the wooden slats in the sand.
Weaver nodded and followed. In the silence that accompanied the hollow reality of this man’s words, they had all been left reeling. But the man had anticipated that, Weaver realised. He had been in control throughout, had been surprised by nothing.
The freighter-tramp, Shepherd, seemed likely to agree, but only because he knew he had no other option. That made him a risk, because his motives were unpredictable. As for the navigator, Weaver doubted anyone could guess what she might do, least of all her. She was withdrawing from stim, and that alone made her dangerous and volatile.
‘I have questions,’ Weaver said as they walked through the camp. He massaged his arm as he watched the people there work. The sudden movement in seizing a hostage and restraining him, as Skoryk faced him down with his weapon, had opened old wounds. Beyond that, too, his muscles and bones ached as adrenaline bled away. His implant was getting old. He was getting old.
‘Yes, I’m sure you do. But first, I should introduce myself. My name is Rankin.’
Weaver snorted. ‘Of course you already know who I am.’ Rankin smiled thinly at that. ‘The Astratus—you knew what was going on there?’
‘Only vaguely. Tell me what you found.’
Weaver described the Astratus, and what he had seen within it, in some detail. Then he turned to the chukiri on the terrestrial. He detailed what he had seen of Gant’s colony and the way in which the chukiri had been taught to wage war. He left nothing out, because he wanted to see Rankin’s reaction. Of course, none of it surprised him. Even when Weaver described Abraham’s role, he saw no flicker of surprise in Rankin’s bloodshot, fleshy face.
‘We’ve seen others like it,’ Rankin said when Weaver was done. ‘Planets they guard just as closely. They’re using Kolyma fleet inmates—conditioning them using Peacekeeper implants. Sometimes it works, but not always. Peacekeeper implants and the physiological and mental ch
anges they engender take months, if not years, of inurement and training to use.’
‘And how do you know all this?’
‘I was once a science officer on a naval cruiser. Which meant I was a military man first, and a scientist some way after that.’
Although Rankin’s face gave away nothing, Weaver saw the half-truth immediately. Perhaps he had once been billeted with the Navy, but there was far more to him now. Naval personnel killed at a distance, so they had no need of the same emotional detachment that made the Peacekeepers so effective. The implants were different, too—they lacked physiological enhancements. In fact, all naval personnel required was mental conditioning. And it was that same mental conditioning which also suited them to an espionage role—a place in the Circus, as they called it. How much are you hiding from us? Weaver thought. How much of this is the truth?
Rankin saw his understanding and smiled.
‘You must know the risks of what you’re doing,’ Weaver said.
‘You think we would attempt all of this,’ he waved an arm to indicate the camp, ‘if we weren’t prepared?’
‘You’re asking everyone here to take a lot on faith. What proof have you given them? How do you know when the attacks are going to come?’
‘I told you as much as I did because I needed you to understand what was at stake. I had to motivate you. To tell you any more is too much of risk.’ His tone was casual and his expression impenetrable. Weaver realised his voice had no accent to it.
‘What made you believe I would act in the way you needed me to?’
‘I think you already know I can’t tell you that either.’
Weaver nodded. They were prepared, and well resourced. ‘You have assets in place,’ he said. ‘But you knew the Seneshal would come for me. You had to. They’re at the Astratus planet now, cleaning up every trace of their presence. They were desperate enough to destroy the population of Jieshou. You used me.’