by Lucas Bale
One of the gunships opened fire on the valley walls. First where Dayton had been, then turning towards Soames. The second hovered behind it, turning, scanning.
And then the first gunship exploded in mid-air. A searing, incandescent streak—from above, from the charcoal sky—had punched through it, a plume of grey in its wake. The ship’s reactor core overloaded almost instantly, and the resulting detonation tore it apart, sending shards of armoured hull spiralling towards the snow.
The second gunship banked away as another blinding streak narrowly missed it.
‘Squad, confirm positions,’ Neilssen said as he searched the sky.
‘Hobbes secure.’
‘Carrel secure.’
The townsfolk were in the cellars. Safe, for now. At least as safe as they could be. Nothing yet from Dayton or Soames.
Above, a shadow crept across the charcoal clouds. Slowly, like a lumbering beast, it bled through the storm. Another flash lit up the cloud like lightning, and Neilssen watched a third streak of pure white slash the slate-grey sky. The gunship banked tightly again and the streak thumped into the mountain, exploding as it hit and tossing shards of obsidian upwards amidst a squall of powdered snow.
The gunship turned then and surged upwards, opening fire. Streaks of crimson blistered the sky and lit the underside of the black beast above it. But there were no explosions, no apparent damage, even as the gunship continued its assault, racing towards its target. There was no break in the fire it spat.
Something pulsed from the monster above it. A subtle, rolling haze. Silent, but like a heavy wind. Neilssen felt it. A single, throbbing burst. Just like whatever they had seen on the ridge.
The gunship ceased firing, and the sapphire glow from its engines dimmed abruptly. Only its momentum carried it upwards now, slowing, until it almost hung in the air. Time froze as Neilssen watched, knowing what was about to happen; knowing that there was nothing the crew inside could do to stop it.
The gunship fell.
‘Dayton, Soames. Confirm position.’
‘Dayton, en route to evac point.’
Nothing from Soames.
The gunship struck the side of the mountain hard and erupted, spilling ochre flames onto the snow and ice.
‘Soames, confirm position.’
Silence.
‘Dayton, received,’ Neilssen said. ‘We’re moving out now. We use the forest as cover.’
Neilssen scanned the sky down the valley, using the helmet’s ocular systems to magnify his vision. Two more faint blue glows in the distance: Eldridge and the APT; the gunship sentry with it.
Neilssen looked upwards at the leviathan in the sky and knew instantly what would happen. The APT and the gunship were headed straight for it. The valley walls, in the first instance meant to hide them, would now be their tomb. There was no room to manoeuvre.
The gunship broke away and opened fire, but it could not possibly escape. The APT—much slower, bulkier, and less agile—had even less of a chance. Both crashed into the valley floor. Yet no explosions followed. They had been low down, keeping as close to the river running through the centre of the valley as possible. Perhaps it had been the only thing to save them.
Neilssen turned away.
He took the stairs down from his rooftop perch. As he exited the building into the street, he saw Hobbes, Carrel and the rest of the squad leading the townsfolk away. They kept them close to the low buildings, using alleyways as cover.
Neilssen followed, keeping his weapon aimed upwards. He didn’t know what capability that ship might have to see them down here, even hundreds of metres away. Or whether he and his men would even be considered a legitimate target when dozens more Peacekeeper gunships and heavily armoured vehicles would soon enter this sector.
They reached the edge of the forest and continued on until Neilssen told them to stop.
Carrel crouched next to him as they scanned the sky above them. ‘You saw the APT go down?’
‘Yes.’
‘What now?’
‘It didn’t explode. It came down hard—it won’t fly again—but it didn’t explode.’
‘You want to go back?’
‘Not yet. I want to talk to them.’ He nodded towards the townsfolk crouched beside the trees.
Neilssen walked over to them and removed his helmet. They would see his face, perhaps older than they would expect, but still taut, confident, and strong. They would see his platoon tattoos, too, although they could not possibly understand the significance of them to the men and women under his command. And they would see his eyes. At least there, they might see the truth in his words.
‘Listen to me,’ Neilssen said. ‘An hour ago, this planet was the subject of a tactical assault by an unknown enemy. Casualties have been considerable. From this moment on, mankind is at war with what might be a vastly superior enemy.’
He allowed the words to sink in. He watched the confusion spread across their faces, letting the panic propagate, knowing they needed to reconcile the threat within themselves. They would not listen, could not take in what he needed to tell them, until they had processed that shock.
Eyes wide, they stared at him. Short breaths, fast-beating hearts. They don’t know what to believe, he thought. They can’t accept us being here with them like this. After a moment, he continued.
‘You are afraid of us. That is understandable. I have no time to explain who we are, or why we are doing this. But listen to me when I say we will not hurt you. We intend to lead you away from the threat zone and keep you secure. You do not trust us; I accept that. But as of this moment, there is no one else to protect you. So you will come with us. You will do as we say, and if called upon, you will fight. Do you understand?’
For a long time, they said nothing; they just continued to stare at him. He wondered if the shock had been too much for them. This was surely the first time any of them had ever seen a Peacekeeper without his helmet. Perhaps they had not even considered them to be men, but instead hellish ghosts who could not possibly be human. Maybe that was the only way they were able to make sense of the armoured monsters who brutalised and subjugated them. And now, on top of that shock, they were being told there was a greater enemy. Perhaps it was too much.
Eventually, one of them said—tentatively, Neilssen noticed—‘Where are we going?’
‘Within the mountains there are systems of caves that are shielded from our own scanning technology. Perhaps they will hide us. Perhaps not. But they can be defended. They are sheltered from the worst of the weather. That is our objective.’
‘We need to climb the mountains?’
‘There is a path.’
‘But it’s winter. We’ll freeze.’
‘There is adequate clothing and equipment inside an Armoured Peacekeeper Transport in the valley.’
‘Where is it? Is it coming for us?’
‘It was shot down.’
‘How do you know if what we need survived the crash?’
‘We will need to search the wreckage.’
Neilssen regarded the man. He was slightly overweight, certainly not fit. From his demeanour, he was likely a town merchant or shopkeeper. But he seemed reasonably calm. Confident enough to come forward and speak. Someone, perhaps, that Neilssen could use.
‘We cannot stay here,’ he said finally. ‘There is no other option.’
C H A P T E R 50
THEY LEFT her body there, the rivers of her blood mingling with the cool rain and draining away. Around them, the city’s lights grew intense and its dull evening whine intensified. The air felt thick and heavy.
The list of their enemies had grown abruptly. To the Magistratus, they could now add their own kind—those Skoryk served, Rankin, and presumably the Third Consul, despite Elias’s protestations. Whoever had been watching on those cameras knew everything now. Romanov had failed, and she had paid the price. They would look to try again.
Skoryk was another problem. He had set his plan up from the begi
nning, Weaver realised as they ran. He held some ulterior motive, something that was more deeply rooted in him than a simple notion of justice for Jieshou. Whatever it might be, it was in play now, and Weaver was his scapegoat. Weaver had to grudgingly admit that Skoryk had played his cards beautifully. Weaver had no port left to him, no one he could trust.
But then, how did that actually change anything? Hadn’t it always been that way?
Where is Skoryk now? Weaver wondered bitterly. Does it matter? He’ll have to wait. There are more pressing matters.
They ducked into a passage beside warehouses and industrial workshops bathed in bleak shadow, and paused to catch their breath. They had been at almost a full sprint for more than ten minutes. Weaver’s old wounds had reopened and begun to weep. His muscles were like knotted cable.
‘We need a way off Theia,’ he growled. ‘We can’t stay here. Whether it’s the Magistratus looking for us now, or some of our own, we need to find somewhere to think. To plan our next move.’
Elias nodded, breathless. ‘I agree.’
‘There are freighters the Caesteri have requisitioned. They’re retained for investigations where anonymity is to be preferred. If we can find a way into the compound, we can take one.’
Elias shook his head as he scanned the entrance to the passage. ‘Too dangerous. First we have to get in there. Then we have to hope that none of those freighters will be monitored or trackable, or that we can somehow disable the tracking systems. Both the Seneshal and the Caesteri are searching for you. An unauthorised breach would gift them a trail directly to us. And I doubt you could arrange authorisation without assistance, which means trusting others in the Caesteri. We can’t risk that.’
‘Do you have a suggestion?’
‘Yes, but it may put us at yet more risk. However, if it works, we’ll be able to disappear more effectively.’
‘Go on.’
‘We need to go back to Aden, to my House’s estate. There is something there I have to retrieve.’
‘They’ll be waiting for you. The estate will be crawling with surveillance tetrabit and Seneshal crows.’
‘Like I said, there may be some risk involved. But there are ways into the estate other than by the main gates.’
Of course he was right. There were ways through the high wall around the estate—concealed entrances Elias knew about and used to avoid the scrutiny of the Magistratus. Gaps that presumably allowed him to come and go as he pleased. Such secrets weren’t unusual, particularly for the conscientia.
Elias led Weaver to an outbuilding in the parkland, virtually hidden within the estate’s man-made woodland. ‘It’s an old groundsman’s hut,’ Elias said when he saw the expression on Weaver’s face.
‘Who knows about it?’ Weaver asked.
‘No one. It’s been unused for years. There are several buildings like this on the estate. No cameras cover it. No one comes here. I sweep it regularly.’
‘Then let’s get inside. We’re exposed out here.’
Inside, Elias dug around behind some shelving and took out something small wrapped in a fabric cloth. He laid it on the workbench and unwrapped it. It was a module.
‘On this is everything I have,’ he said. ‘Every piece of information I was able to uncover on what my master was doing.’
‘I was told you didn’t know.’
Elias shook his head, adamant. ‘I didn’t. Until shortly before I met you in Theia, after your recent return.’
‘So you made your own enquiries?’
‘You were right,’ Elias said. ‘The Seneshal—I can’t be sure it is them, of course, but it seems likely—they do have something of value to me. They wanted to know what my master was doing, as did I. For a while, our interests converged.’ Elias shrugged. ‘So yes, I conducted my own enquiries.’
‘And you discovered the plan?’
‘Not all of it at first. I had to force the issue. But eventually the Consul chose to confide in me.’
‘Do you think it can be done?’
Elias seemed surprised by the question. Then he said, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never known my master to fail at anything. No one manipulates the Quorum as well as he—that’s how he came to be Third Consul. He’s planned this whole operation in intricate detail, every single issue considered and resolved. But evacuating so many people, even with the distraction of your insurgency…’ Elias shook his head. ‘No, I’m not sure it can be done. And making any deal with the Bazaar is fraught with risk. No one knows what their endgame will be, or whether they can truly be trusted.’
Weaver considered this, then nodded to the module. ‘What’s on it?’
Elias turned to Weaver, his expression stony. ‘You said we would come back. Why? I want to know what it is you intend to do.’
Weaver sighed. ‘Trust,’ he said finally. ‘It’s all about trust, isn’t it? We started this together, and now we end it together. So be it. You know about the theatres, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘I intend to return with the privateer’s warship and take people with me that your master is doubtless going to leave behind.’ Weaver shook his head, his face pinched and drawn. ‘However many I can. I won’t continue to watch the affluent cantons progress their own lives at the expense of others. We make contact with the theatres. They are the only ones who can gather the lower-caste cantons. And whatever the Seneshal have that drives you—whoever they have—I’ll come with you and we’ll finish it together. That’s my deal. Now tell me what’s on the module.’
Elias said nothing for a long time, staring at Weaver. Eventually, he said, ‘Documentation, contracts, customs licences, freight routes. I believe I can arrange for the documentation we require to secure passage on a star carrier away from Theia by posing as freight crew.’
‘You’re forgetting my implant.’
‘I was told they had disguised it.’
‘Not enough,’ Weaver said quietly. ‘If anyone scans it up close, they’ll know.’
‘We may have to take that risk,’ Elias said. ‘Convince them it’s a flaw within the system. Hope that word that you’re here hasn’t yet reached the freight port.’
‘That’s trusting far too much to chance.’
‘We don’t have a choice.’
‘You would get caught with me, Elias.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘We don’t know who ordered the woman to kill you. We don’t know who we can trust.’
‘I have contacts still. I trust them as long as I have something to offer them.’
‘Which is?’
‘Freedom. They come with us. If we can offer them that, perhaps they will help us.’
Both of them heard it then. The sound of movement outside. The slip of boots on wet, woodland ground.
Weaver glanced at Elias and pulled his pistol. Elias did the same, but Weaver saw it was unsteady in his hands. Still reeling from someone trying to kill him, he thought. Weaver edged to the door, the pistol down low. He brought it up to head height.
Why? Why come here now? he thought. How could they know? This was no coincidence; Weaver knew there was no such thing as bad luck. No, something had brought them here.
Weaver glanced around the room. He couldn’t say what it was he was looking for. An answer, maybe. Something to explain the storm about to engulf them.
The module. The moment Elias had turned it on, they knew.
They knew about the outbuilding. They knew about Elias. They knew everything.
They were coming for him.
Weaver backed away from the door, keeping the pistol level. His heart raced. His breath caught in his throat.
He pulled the trigger.
C H A P T E R 51
JORDI SAT alone in that small room, with only a low bunk and a single window that offered no view of anything other than the interior of the brightly lit Raznaris hangar. He had tried to lie on the mattress, to sleep or even rest a little, but he couldn’t be still. Whenever he closed his
eyes, he dreamt of home—of the room he had shared with Ishmael in their tiny stone cottage. And each time, through the familiar grimy window of that room, he saw the shadows of the men coming for them. So instead of sleeping, in the silence he oiled his hate. When he could no longer sit, he paced, gnawing at his lips and rubbing his eyes.
And when the door to the room slid open, he shot a look at it and backed away. There were two of them there, still dressed in their bulky, armoured vests, carrying the same short rifles with pistols strapped to their thighs. Silently, they took him along the passage to the room Shepherd had called the refectory. Jordi offered them no resistance; only now it wasn’t fear that drove him, but something else.
On the single, long dining table in the centre of the room sat a lean, dark-haired man Jordi didn’t recognise. The man glanced up, scrutinising Jordi with dark eyes, then turned his attention back to the plate of food in front of him and continued to eat. Around him, the men and women looked on the man with respect, perhaps even reverence.
Yes, Jordi thought. This is the one I need.
They led Jordi to the far corner of the room and stood on either side of him. He didn’t have long to wait before Natasha was brought in. Sweat glistened on her face, and she held her hand tightly against her stomach and grimaced as she walked, as though pushing through pain. He understood why; he had heard her vomiting in her room some time before. When she saw the man, she tensed, and her expression became fraught. Her pale skin flushed. Jordi saw fury in her red eyes and wondered if they mirrored his own.
Right behind her, they led in Shepherd and the preacher.
It was Shepherd who spoke first—too quickly, and the edge to his voice too evident. ‘The boy has nothing to do with this, Skoryk.’
‘That’s for me to decide,’ the man replied without looking at him. Skoryk, Jordi assumed.
‘You hurt anyone on this ship—’ Shepherd began, but faltered. You’ll do what? Jordi thought. What can you do? We’re prisoners.