by Lucas Bale
This time Skoryk looked up. ‘Spare me,’ he said, his face dark. Jordi’s pulse quickened. ‘I’m not going to do this dance with you. You don’t have the cards, and I don’t have the time. But I do have what I came for, and if you don’t get in my way no one will get hurt. However, if you decide to become a threat—well, then I’ll just ditch all of you somewhere quiet.’
‘That was your plan all along, Skoryk?’ Natasha said and grimaced again. ‘All you wanted was this ship? Those people died for this damn ship?’
‘You don’t look so good, Natasha,’ Skoryk said, almost languidly.
‘Fuck you.’
Skoryk only smiled. ‘I don’t want the ship,’ he said. ‘I want what it can get me. I want the Registry.’
‘But that’s why we’re here,’ Shepherd protested bitterly, confusion written across his tired face. ‘Preacher, tell him what we—’
‘No.’ Skoryk cut him off. ‘I know what the preacher wants with the Registry. I have a different intention for it.’
‘You’re going to disseminate it,’ the preacher said quietly. ‘Give people proof they’ve been lied to for centuries. Create a genuine revolution. The Conduit bomb was you, not the Caestor.’
Skoryk regarded the preacher, then curled his mouth in disgust. He canted his head as he spoke. ‘You always seem to know everything, yet I have never been able to understand exactly how.’ He looked away, studying the men and women that stood by him. His people, Jordi thought. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now. I don’t know what’s really coming; none of us do. But I do know that the people deserve to know the truth—to make their own decisions and determine their own future. Isn’t that exactly what you’ve always said, preacher? I’m giving them that chance, opening their eyes to what’s been going on around them. The truth—that there is no madness beyond the Wall. That they have been controlled by lies. That they have conceded their freedom for nothing.’
‘What is it you think you can achieve?’ the preacher said. His face was pinched and his body tensed. ‘You will only weaken the Magistratus. Maybe that’s what you want? If so, you’re a fool. You’ll have them fighting a war on one hand, and an insurgency from within on the other. Right now, those that can’t leave need the Magistratus to protect them.’
‘You think the Quorum will fight to save humanity? You’re that naive? They’ll save themselves and use their citizens as fodder to cover their own escape. They aren’t going to protect anyone. They have their pure race now, their genetically perfect children. That’s all they ever needed.’
‘What children?’ Natasha said. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Didn’t you tell them, preacher?’ Skoryk laughed. ‘No, I imagine not.’
‘So you tell me, Skoryk,’ she said.
He turned on her. ‘What do you care, Natasha? You’ll be snug and warm in another galaxy. Stim-addled and lying alone in some darkened room. These people are not your people. You’re not from the Core. They chose this life.’
‘They’re still people, Skoryk. It’s not right to take the rug from under them.’
Skoryk didn’t answer. He stiffened and looked her straight in the face, his expression pitiless. Through the pain, she met his gaze.
‘This has been planned for too long, Skoryk,’ the preacher said darkly. ‘Every single detail has been carefully weighed. The Quorum protects the Registry above everything else. They know precisely what it contains. And they are looking for us with every resource they have. Each component in our operation has a very precise place and timing, and there are things you don’t know. If we take any other course, this ship will be found—and with it, all of us. Consider what that will mean for millions of people. You must rethink what you’re doing. You cannot succeed.’
‘I’ve had enough of your secrets, preacher,’ Skoryk said. ‘Whatever your endgame, it is not mine. I’m going to say this once. I owe you this warning. Sit quietly, give me no cause for concern, and I guarantee you will live. Give me any trouble at all, and I will drop you out of the airlock. It’s that simple.’
Skoryk turned to his people. ‘Take the freighter tramp back to the hold and then take the rest back to their rooms. We leave as soon as the ship is prepped.’
Jordi was led back to his room. He didn’t see what happened to Shepherd, Natasha, or the preacher, but it didn’t matter. Now was the time.
When he was outside the door, he paused and waited. There were two of them, including the weasel boy, and he felt them tense behind him.
‘What are you doing?’ one of them said. Not the weasel boy, Jordi noted.
‘I want to see him,’ Jordi said without turning. He tried to keep the edge away from his voice—to appear calm despite the storm inside him.
‘Who?’
‘Natasha called him Skoryk,’ Jordi said. ‘He’s your leader, right? I want to talk to Skoryk.’
Something hard struck at the base of his neck. It wasn’t a strong blow, just enough to make him stagger to his knees and make him dizzy. A barked command followed it, a name that might have been Hassan, and then a murmured expression of resentment. The weasel boy—he had a name now, Hassan—had apparently been unable to contain his disgust any longer. Jordi smiled, despite the billowing nausea.
‘You have nothing to say to him,’ the other one said.
‘Tell him I have something for him. Something he’ll want.’ Jordi forced himself to his feet, steadying himself again the bulkhead, and slammed his fist against the pressure pad for the door. Then he stepped into his room and let them shut the door behind him.
He didn’t have to wait long before the door opened again and the man, Skoryk, stood there alone. He wore a pistol on his thigh and a knife on his belt. He was dressed in the same heavy armoured vest as the others.
‘You wanted to see me, little man?’ he said.
Jordi remained still and looked at him, wary. ‘My father used to call me that.’
Skoryk returned his stare. ‘Where is your father now?’
‘The preacher and the smuggler brought us to a planet after we left Herse. I don’t know the name of it.’
Skoryk nodded. He stepped inside the room and closed the door. ‘It doesn’t have a name,’ he said as he turned back to Jordi. ‘Do you find that strange?’
‘Everything is strange to me now. None of this seems real.’
Skoryk raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve never left your home before now?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a whole universe out there that the Magistratus has kept from you. You were told what to believe, what to think. And you could do nothing else but listen.’
Jordi shook his head quickly. ‘I never believed what they told me. I always knew there was more. I didn’t believe everything the preacher told me either, but I do believe in freedom.’
‘Is that why you wanted to talk to me?’
‘They killed my brother,’ Jordi said, feeling the hate rise inside him. ‘And my neighbours. They came to our village in the middle of the night and shot men, women, and children in their beds.’ Tears welled in his eyes and he forced his words past the weight gathering in his throat. ‘We managed to get out only because by chance I saw them coming. I warned my family, and we ran into the forest. We nearly froze to death, waiting for the preacher to come. But we survived.’
‘That was admirable.’ For a moment, Jordi thought Skoryk was mocking him, but there was only pity in his eyes.
‘I don’t have anything left.’ Jordi stumbled now, and was embarrassed by the emotion in his voice. He didn’t want this man to see his weakness. Only his hate.
‘You have your mother and father. They need you.’
‘I need more than that. I miss my brother. I want…’ he paused and struggled to find the right word. Eventually, choosing carefully, he said, ‘I want justice for what they did to him.’ Skoryk watched him as he continued. ‘I want to fight back. You want to tell people the truth. They deserve that, and I want to help you do it. We survived in
that forest because of me. I stayed hidden from Peacekeepers and I killed the man who betrayed my village. You can use me. I’m not afraid anymore.’
‘I can see that.’ Skoryk stood and straightened his armoured vest.
‘Then take me with you,’ Jordi said, standing with him.
Skoryk stared at him. ‘I can’t be responsible for you. What we have to do is dangerous. I can’t use you unless you’re willing to fight for what you believe in.’
‘I’ll fight,’ Jordi said quickly. ‘Some of your people aren’t much older than me. Are you responsible for them?’
‘They chose to be here. They understand the risks.’
Jordi didn’t hesitate. ‘Then I choose it too. I know the risks too. Dying doesn’t scare me anymore. I’m tired of being afraid.’
Skoryk seemed to study him, and Jordi felt a chill wash over him. His fingers were drawn into tight fists at his side.
Then Skoryk smiled. ‘Come with me.’
C H A P T E R 52
THE PISTOL kicked in Weaver’s hand, and the echo of its hollow report shouted from the stone walls. He kept firing, punching holes in the solid wooden door.
There were no windows, but even still he dropped down low as he fired.
He caught Elias gaping, blinking. Dead still.
‘They’re tracking the module,’ Weaver said between shots.
Elias nodded, almost dumbly. He flipped the module over and took some kind of tool from the workbench. Weaver fired again.
Whoever was out there returned the compliment. They had pistols, not heavy Peacekeeper rifles. Weaver snorted. At least that was something. More holes punched through the door, and chips of stone flicked off the walls.
‘Can you do anything?’ Weaver said, flinching as more shots came. He let them shoot. They know we’re armed now. Let them waste their ammunition shooting at a door. But they’ll be in here soon.
‘Think so,’ Elias said. ‘I just need the storage subroutines. I don’t need the main unit.’
‘You know where the tracker is?’
Elias shook his head as he worked. Weaver frowned and fired again. More shots slammed into the wall behind them, and a shard of stone cut his face before he could turn away. He winced. No demands, he thought. No suggestion we come quietly. There’s only one thing on their minds.
He fired again. ‘There another way out of here?’ he asked, glancing again at Elias.
‘That door’s the only way out.’
Weaver cursed and looked around. The walls were stone; no way through those. Not in the time they had. If they could get into the grounds, they’d have the cover of the trees in the parkland. At night, it would be difficult to see them. Maybe they could make a run for it.
But there was only one way into the grounds.
Their aggressors outside would be converging on the door slowly, in stages, Weaver thought. The fact that he had opened fire so quickly might have put them on the back foot. They’d lost the advantage of surprise. Maybe they were rethinking.
‘How much longer?’ he growled.
‘Nearly done.’
‘Give me the unit when you’re finished.’ Weaver fired again, three times, and got a few more in reply. The reports sounded closer now. They’d made up their minds to close in. It wouldn’t be long.
‘When you go through the door, double back around the building. Use it as cover, then run.’
‘They’ll shoot the second I get out the door.’
‘Leave that to me.’ He seized Elias roughly. ‘We’re both in this now. You understand? We need each other.’
Elias nodded, his face pinched. ‘Yes, dammit. I understand.’
‘I’ll catch you up. Run through the gardens behind the outbuilding, and I’ll get to you. If you reach the edge of the estate, wait for me there.’
‘Fine.’ Elias pressed the module into Weaver’s hand. ‘It’s still tracking.’
‘I hope so. Get yourself ready. Stay low, keep close to the wall of the building, and once you’re clear of it, run. I’ll hold them back as long as I can. You shoot anyone that isn’t me.’
Weaver saw the fear in Elias’s eyes. He felt it himself. He nodded to him, tried to convince him. He doubted his nod came across as reassuring. He doesn’t trust me. And why should he?
Elias ducked down beside the door as more shots hammered into what was left of the wood. Weaver nodded to him, then leaned to the edge of the doorway and fired continuously through. Elias pushed open the remains of the door and ran.
Weaver kept firing. Bullets kicked off the stone at the edges of the doorway and he pulled back inside, breathless and tense.
He took a breath and glanced at the module. Come and find me then, he thought.
He turned, burst through the doorway, firing, and ran.
The shots came quickly, but he’d almost reached the edge of the outbuilding before the pain exploded in his shoulder. It wasn’t bad, he guessed—the bullet had just clipped him—but it burned like hell. He flinched and tried not to shout out.
They kept firing as he sprinted through the trees, but this time he didn’t return their fire. He concentrated on running. The estate’s parkland was big. Trees everywhere. Not quite as dense as a natural forest, but good enough at night. The rain hid the sound of his footfalls on the wet ground, but he kept slipping. Doesn’t matter, he thought. I don’t need to go far.
He ran for a few hundred metres before he found a suitable place. Then he removed his jacket, glistening with his blood, and laid it over the trunk of a downed tree. It didn’t look great, but it might be enough in the darkness. He tossed the module beside it and ducked down several metres away, behind a thick spread of shrubbery.
He didn’t have to wait long. They moved quickly rather than silently—they were trained, but not expert. As soon as Weaver saw what he thought was all of them—four in total—he began firing. Three seconds was all it took. They saw the flash of his weapon in the darkness, but there was no time. One got a shot off into the shrubbery near him, but it missed by a good distance. And then they were all down.
Weaver waited to see if there were more, but none came.
He eased himself out and shot all but one of the men in the face. The pistol belonging to the fourth was nearby, and he kicked it away. He pointed his gun at the man’s face.
‘Who sent you?’ Weaver demanded.
‘You can’t run,’ the man sneered. Something wet bubbled in his mouth. He coughed more of it onto his face. Blood was in his lungs. ‘There’s nowhere for you to go.’
‘Who sent you?’
The man closed his eyes and coughed again.
‘You think they care about someone like you? You’re going to die here. Right now. What has that accomplished?’
The man’s eyes flicked open, wide and staring. ‘We found you.’
‘Not for long,’ Weaver said. He shot the man in the head.
Weaver went to retrieve his coat, wincing in pain, and then ran again. He reached the high wall and followed it towards the line Elias had taken from the outbuilding, eventually finding him on the edge of the estate.
Elias wordlessly led him to a quiet passage, away from Aden, using a convoluted route that insulated them from the scrutiny of the glistening walkways and the Conduit. An industrial area that reminded Weaver of the Marmara estate he’d been brought to when he’d first arrived—Rankin’s pipeline into the Core. Simple domiciles scattered between high warehouses and workshops, open steel archways that felt the wind. Shadows that watched and whispered.
It made Weaver wonder what Rankin was doing about him now; what pieces that dishevelled little man was moving around to find him and close him down. Damn Skoryk. Somewhere, deep down, Weaver admitted to himself that he was bitter, because Skoryk had beaten him.
Elias paused beside a doorway and looked at him. Weaver understood and stepped away. He glanced around, almost automatically, searching for cameras, or others that might be watching, figures that lingered in the darknes
s.
Elias knocked at the door until it opened a crack. The angle was too tight for Weaver to see inside—that had been the intention—so he just watched as Elias spoke in a low voice. Elias canted his face away from him, presumably so he couldn’t hear what was said. It made Weaver uneasy. His hand fell to his pistol.
Eventually, after what might have been remonstration, the door opened and Elias beckoned Weaver inside. He led him through a messy workshop and into a second room beyond. This room was much smaller and considerably tidier, with a simple desk and drawers and a single bulb hanging brightly over it. The walls were set with closed-off cabinets and stark shadows thrown by the harsh light.
‘It’s bad for me, you being here, Elias,’ said a man standing in one corner, away from them. He was a small, weaselly type with skittish hands and gnawed lips. There was a dusty bottle open on the desk. Weaver could smell the moonshine in it from the door.
‘I have an offer that may change that,’ Elias said.
The man paused, and his yellowy eyes flashed. ‘Go on.’
‘There’s a war coming. One that can’t be won. Theia is a target. But I think you already know that. I think you know it’s not safe to be here.’
The man shrugged and eyed the bottle. ‘Has it ever been safe? Haven’t we always been prisoners? Yet here I am, alive and prosperous.’
‘Things are changing.’
‘There’s always change, yet we adapt.’ He played with his hands.
‘Not this time.’
The man’s demeanour changed abruptly. Weaver thought maybe it meant he had already recognised the truth in what Elias was saying, and the rest was simply bravado. Or maybe it was something else. He couldn’t be sure either way. ‘What do you need, Elias?’
Elias plugged a drive into a module on the desk, turned it on, and displayed the freight contracts and customs licences. ‘We need identity documentation to go with this material. Modules calibrated to fit the documentation; implant signals re-coded.’
The man reached into a drawer and picked out some kind of scanner. He placed it against Elias’s torso and scrutinised the display. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, it can be done.’