Stealing Light

by Gary Gibson

  ‘Where are you going?’ Gardner demanded, as Corso began dragging her out of the bridge.

  ‘If Kieran Mansell or any of the rest of them get their hands on her, Mr Gardner, you can kiss your transluminal drive goodbye.’

  ‘Stop, damn you. Stop!’ Gardner’s face was like thunder. ‘Stop or I’ll—’

  Despite the pain lancing through him, Corso laughed as he watched Gardner’s fists twisting at his sides in impotent rage. But Corso had long pegged him for a physical coward.

  ‘There’s nowhere for you to go,’ Gardner almost pleaded, his voice breaking up. ‘There are worse things than death, Mr Corso. They’re your own people—you should already know that.’

  ‘The two of us were already dead the moment either of us set foot on the Hyperion,’ Corso replied. ‘And you know it, so shut the hell up.’ He finally managed to wrestle Dakota out into the corridor adjacent to the bridge. ‘And you’re just as expendable to them, Mr Gardner. Perhaps you should know that too.’

  Twenty-one

  Redstone Colony

  Consortium Standard Date: 03.06.2538

  Port Gabriel Incident + twenty-five minutes

  From the middle of the highway, Dakota stared at the line of approaching vehicles, one hand shading her eyes from the bright sun overhead.

  For the first time she noticed the statue mounted on a shoulder-high plinth over to one side of the road. The statue itself was no more than perhaps two feet in height, as if a tiny figure had climbed on top of the granite plinth and raised its bronze hands to the skies in either triumph or despair.

  Although she had never set eyes on the statue before, she identified it immediately.

  What was curious about that sudden recognition was the knowledge that, until a few minutes ago, she could not possibly have known the significance of the statue or even who it represented. That, of course, was before the Uchidans had filled her with their Holy Purpose.

  The statue, she now knew, was of Belle Trevois, the martyr. The figure was stylized, its face smooth and blank, the body angular. Iron flames rose up behind to frame her, like the rays of the sun.

  The statue had been badly vandalized. Freeholder graffiti had been scrawled across it, words like mind-fucked bitch and burn in hell. The stylized metal flames had been bashed and bent out of shape, and the tools obviously used to do the damage still lay in the grass nearby: rusted engine tools and nondescript chunks of stone.

  New information was being uploaded to her mind, couched in the soft caress of an angelic voice. She learned this was the spot where an orbital transport called the Belle Trevois had crashed long ago. Those who had then died here had long since entered God’s embrace.

  At least, once she was finished here, that was something for her to look forward to.

  The loose and frequently contested border the Freehold shared with the Uchidans lay only seventy-five kilometres eastwards. The Freehold settlement of Port Gabriel lay—as Dakota’s Ghost informed her—only thirteen kilometres to the east.

  The same direction from which she could see the line of vehicles now approaching.

  A familiar tingle announced itself in the back of her thoughts. Chris Severn! He was still alive. Dakota grinned widely. He didn’t even need to verbalize anything for her to sense the same Holy Purpose he now also carried within him.

  They were all in this together now, the legacy of Uchida having saved them from themselves. Dakota began to weep with sheer joy, the tears freezing instantly on her cheeks.

  The first of the transports would be upon her in only a few minutes, but the road behind her was completely blocked by the crashed orbital transport. The approaching convoy appeared to be mostly made up of the kind of vehicles capable of leaving the road if they needed to, but for the moment Dakota stood between them and the next Freehold settlement lying to the west.

  She glanced again at the vandalized statue and felt nothing but revulsion for what had been done to it.

  From the direction of the nearest plumes of smoke staining the sky, three figures approached across the plains. All three, she sensed, were machine-heads, Chris Severn among them. Eventually he raised his hand and waved to her. Dakota raised her own hand and yelled back a greeting, her mouth opening wide in a happy smile under her breather mask.

  She could hear the grumble of engines getting closer. The leading ground transport must by now have seen the way was blocked. The line of vehicles behind it straggled back maybe a couple of kilometres, and there weren’t therefore as many as she’d first thought. Maybe a dozen in all, but really big vehicles: huge multi-tiered things with balloon wheels. She saw one in the distance carefully roll off the road, and slowly start making its way south-west.

  As the approaching machine-heads jogged quickly towards her, the first transport began to slow on reaching the crash site, its silver carapace gleaming under the bright sun. She could see silhouettes of people in the wide windows pointing towards her and gesticulating. They looked like an average cross-section of Freeholders: men, women and a substantial number of children.

  In the distance, the angel appeared once more, sword in hand, striding across the horizon in the direction of Port Gabriel. Its robes and face were hazy with distance. Dakota glanced to the side and saw the other machine-heads had seen it too.

  The angel spoke to her.

 

  Dakota, my Lord.

 

  Dakota tried to consult her Ghost circuits, but they weren’t responding normally. Loud, angry, pleading voices burst through on one of the mil-comms frequencies, momentarily drowning out her thoughts and stridently demanding her obedience.

  She decided she didn’t want to listen to what they had to say, and cut them off.

  I don’t know, she replied. I don’t know. I. . . I can’t find out.

 

  Lord?

  There was a sound rather like a muffled conversation somewhere inside Dakota’s head. One of the voices was clearly that of the angel, and it was arguing with someone.

  Something . . . something wasn’t right. Dakota moaned and clutched at her head.

 

  What? Dakota couldn’t figure out who had just spoken to her. She . . .

  Bliss flooded her thoughts. Her determination to do right by her newly found faith was instantly restored.

 

  It was the angel speaking, again. Everything was all right once more.

 

  Stunned shock. What?

 

  Dakota began to weep again, feeling as if her soul had been wrenched clean from her body.

 

  But there wasn’t anything more to tell.

  I’m sorry. I meant it when I said I couldn’t tell you anything else. I’m sorry. Please. I —

 

  Dakota collapsed to her knees. She hadn’t realized she could ever feel so bad, so lost.

  What can I do?

 

  People were spilling out of the nearest of the ground transports, which had veered diagonally across the road as it approached the wrecked orbiter. They wore the distinctive clothing of Freeholders, a mixture of bright oranges and dull greys, along with their ubiquitous breather masks. They looked confused and scared, and only a very few of them appeared to be armed. She had the feeling none of these were the aggressive warrior-types she had so far encountered: by contrast, they were just ordinary people. Those few who did car
ry arms came towards Dakota as she waited there in the middle of the road.

  Lines of light occasionally bisected the sky over their heads, accompanied by the odd flash of light, as if tiny stars were being briefly born, and just as rapidly dying, far above their heads. A silent battle filled the Redstone sky, far above them.

  Voices came through to Dakota again, her superiors at the Circus Ring ordering her to lay down her arms. She found it was getting easier, however, to tune them out.

  One man stepped ahead of the rest of the Freeholders, a rifle gripped in both hands. Something in his demeanour convinced Dakota that he knew just now to use it. The rest trailed a little behind, obviously nappy to let him take the lead.

  She walked towards him, forcing a smile. ‘We crashed,’ she called out as the distance between them narrowed. ‘Who are you? Are you people all right?’

  The man with the rifle stopped, a wary look on his race. ‘You’re Consortium, right? I’m head of this convoy, and we’re carrying refugees away from Port Gabriel.’

  He glanced past Dakota’s shoulder, but she’d already dragged the bodies of the Freehold dead back inside the orbiter’s hull. ‘Are there any machine-heads back there?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Dakota replied. She kept moving towards him, but he didn’t lower his rifle. Behind him, she could see, a lot of children were emerging from the transport, looking lost and scared.

  The two of them were almost face to face now, and she could hear the exhaustion in his voice as he replied: ‘We were warned to get out, after we started hearing reports over our comms about machine-heads going crazy and killing people.’ He nodded towards the distant plumes of smoke. ‘I had the feeling maybe things aren’t going too well for us right now.’

  He was taking a good look at her for the first time, and Dakota realized her stubbled scalp was still partly visible under the thin layer of insulation she’d pulled over her head. That was as good as holding up a banner announcing her machine-head status.

  The Freeholder with the rifle suddenly backed away in alarm, levelling his weapon. She could see his knuckles turn white as he aimed at her chest.

  The ensuing shot came from out of nowhere.

  The approach of Severn and the others had been hidden by the ruined orbiter’s hull as they made for the highway. None of the refugees had meanwhile been expecting danger to approach from off-road.

  Part of the Freeholder’s shoulder dissolved into red slurry and he collapsed with a shriek, writhing and gasping. His rifle clattered to the ground.

  The refugees who had already disembarked scattered instantly. Most, but not all, ran back towards the ground transport they’d just stepped down from.

  Dakota’s Ghost informed her that Severn’s companions were Elissa and Bryon. Bryon in particular looked like he’d endured a pretty rough landing, but it was also clear the Holy Spirit was doing a good job of keeping him going. Despite obvious pain, his eyes were bright with faith. All three of them were armed.

  Chris Severn ran over to Dakota and hugged her, still gripping the pistol he’d just used to kill the Freeholder.

  Shots sounded from the direction of the ground transport, where refugees were still cramming back on board. The nearest of the other transports had already started to retreat, reversing wildly back down the road. Dakota could see several ant-like figures milling outside a transport that had skidded into a long ditch. She wondered if they had good enough weapons to snipe them from that distance.

  Dakota and the other three machine-heads instantly rook cover behind the orbiter’s hull. More shots headed their way and they began to return fire. They heard the shatter of glass, followed by terrified screams.

  Elissa went down in a spray of blood as one Freeholder, who’d climbed on top of the transport, took her out with a carefully aimed shot when she momentarily broke cover. Bryon stood up and screamed in horrified anguish, before taking the sniper down with a fusillade of shots raining on to the transport’s roof.

  The huge vehicle’s rear wheels spun and skidded, and then the whole thing tilted, one end sliding into the roadside ditch just a few metres away from the mutilated statue of Belle Trevois. Bryon pulled a slim black grenade out from inside his jacket and tossed it towards the transport with the last of his strength. When he began to shake violently, Dakota noticed his suit had been badly ripped during the past minute or so. He was freezing to death. Bryon pulled himself back under the shelter of the hull and curled up in a shivering, helpless ball.

  It was all down to Severn and Dakota now.

  They left Bryon where he lay and moved out from cover. As the grenade detonated, the whole front of the transport lifted a couple of metres off the road before crashing back down in flames amid shattering metal and glass. The body of the vehicle split open, spilling bodies out on the frozen highway, though the screams were fewer this time. Dakota and Severn ran towards the crippled transport.

  The killing didn’t take long. They both carried pistols capable of firing small explosive charges that they used to maximum effect. Their victims continued to scream, but most were now trapped inside the burning transport.

  They burned just like Belle Trevois had burned at the hands of the rioters who had set her aflame inside the temple. They burned just like martyrs—but for Freeholders there could never be any salvation.

  A few even managed to pull themselves free of the ruins of the transport, but Dakota and Severn chased after them relentlessly, shooting non-stop as they hurdled over the charred corpses already scattered across the frozen roadside.

  Most of the refugees were not wearing protective gear or even breather masks, so only managed a few dozen metres before the intense cold took them down. Others tried to crawl to safety out of sight along the roadside ditch, but they were picked off easily enough. The freezing cold would probably have dealt with them anyway, but Dakota wanted to be thorough.

  And then there was only the sound of flames licking over the exposed bones of the ground transport, and the high-pitched blowing of the wind from over the mountains.

  The angel was gone, as thoroughly as if it had never been there.

  Severn was shivering so violently, at first Dakota thought his insulation suit must have ripped too. But it wasn’t that.

  ‘Dak . . . Dakota. Listen to me, Dakota.’

  He had fallen to his knees, staring at the desolation around them. Dakota was at a loss about what to do next.

  The air all about was stained with the acrid fumes of the burning ground transport. Dakota knelt by Severn and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The angel. Where’s it gone?’

  ‘I don’t know, Chris. Are you all right?’

  ‘No.’ His shivering became worse. He brought his pistol in close to his chest, hugging it there in both hands as if he were cradling a baby. ‘Something’s wrong, Dakota. Something’s really very wrong.’

  Dakota tried to deny it at first, but something was wrong, a sense of unease that had been growing within her for several minutes. At first she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  The voices from the Circus Ring came back to harangue and plead with her again. They were getting harder and harder to ignore.

  ‘We’ll be fine, Chris. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘No. No, we won’t. We won’t be fine at all.’ He looked at the landscape around them, at the devastation, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘What just happened here?’

  ‘We were carrying out—’

  God’s purpose?

  No, that wasn’t it. Then what?

  Dakota squeezed her eyes shut. Alerts flashed at the edge of her awareness, clamouring for her full attention. She tried to make them go away but they wouldn’t—not this time.

  Then she became aware that the presence that had filled her all through the crash-landing and beyond was gone now, and with it the ineffable sense of majestic, holy purpose that had filled her. It felt like waking up from the worst nightmare imaginable.<
br />
  She turned to Chris and opened her mouth to say something but, before she had time to utter so much as a syllable he shoved his pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Dakota screamed as his body was thrown back across the roadside by the force of the shot.

  She stumbled and fell to the ground, her fingers clawing the hard road surface, her terrified gasps sounding metallic and hollow inside her breather.

  After a while, she regained some control over herself. She was Dakota Merrick, and a machine-head. She was a pilot for the Consortium.

  All around her lay the bodies of the dead. Too many of them were children.

  She crawled over to Severn. There was still the faint flutter of a pulse, but he’d probably be dead within minutes. Perhaps that was for the best.

  She lifted herself up and surveyed the scene more calmly. She then started to walk away from the wrecked ground transport, away from the orbiter, moving in the direction of Port Gabriel.

  There were even more plumes of smoke rising from that direction than the last time she looked. Dakota stopped and glanced over at the roadside statue, its hands still thrusting skywards in mute agony. It started to rain.

  She remembered everything. She remembered too much.

  Twenty-two

  Dakota started to come round again after a couple of minutes. Corso felt her take a firm grip on his shoulder as he hauled her towards a service lift leading to the centre of the gravity wheel and to zero gee.

  Dakota mumbled, her words slurred and mashed together. He tensed instinctively, fearing that she might attack him again. After a moment she opened her eyes and focused on his face.

  ‘Corso?’

  It was barely a mumble, but he nearly wept with gratitude. Whatever had taken her over previously had relinquished its control—at least for the moment.

  ‘Come on, Dakota.’ He dragged her on to the elevator, an open platform used for transferring equipment from the ship’s centre to the inner circumference of the wheel and to the bridge.