Arkship Conquest

by Niel Bushnell

  THE ARKSHIP SAGA

  Arkship Countdown – The Arkship Saga Prologue

  Arkship Obsidian

  Arkship Vengeance

  Arkship Alliance

  Arkship Conquest

  Arkship Prophecy

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  Arkship Countdown – the Arkship Saga Prologue

  ARKSHIP CONQUEST

  By

  Niel Bushnell

  The Arkship Saga Book Four

  First published in 2018 by Magic Number Books. www.magicnumberbooks.co.uk. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. The right of Niel Bushnell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. Copyright © NM Bushnell Limited, 2018.

  For my friend, Chris Chatterton

  Contents

  CONTINUITY

  THE DAMNED

  RIPPLES

  SANCTUARY

  STUDY

  THE CANARY

  THE MESSAGE

  REGRET

  MOVEMENT

  TRUCE

  OLD SECRETS

  REASON

  THE VOID

  MOTIVES

  MEANING

  ULTIMATUM

  RETRIEVAL

  FREEDOM

  HAUNTED

  TEMPTATION

  THE NAME

  REVELATIONS

  RENDEZVOUS

  RUMORS

  TESTING

  EARTH

  DISPUTE

  DETONATION

  TRANSIT

  THE BUBBLE

  ARRIVAL

  RETURN

  CALCULATIONS

  WALLS

  PROPOSAL

  THE PROPHET

  THOUGHTS

  COMMUNICATION

  THE SLOWER PATH

  THE KNOT

  APPROACH

  DATA

  IMPASSE

  WITNESS

  ALONE

  CONSEQUENCES

  UNEXPECTED GUESTS

  WATCHING

  THE SMILING MAN

  CEREMONY

  WAITING

  SANCTUM

  SECOND THOUGHTS

  AN AUDIENCE

  NEW SECRETS

  TRUST

  DRIFTING

  DEMON

  FORTUNE

  CONDEMNED

  POWER

  THE MAGICIAN

  REIGN

  BLASPHEMY

  SIGNALS

  TARGETS

  DARKNESS

  GHOSTS

  TRUTH

  THE CENTER

  CHAOS

  CHOICES

  THE PROMISE

  PRAYERS

  REWARD

  UNION

  DEVIATION

  SERMON

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  A FINAL WORD

  CONTINUITY

  The coffin was empty. No body, just bags of rock weighing it down. Only a handful of people knew the truth, and all of them would take the secret to their own coffins.

  The casket was made of walnut, grown especially for such an occasion in the gardens of Icarus, and the corners were capped with bronze decorative pieces encrusted with precious jewels. The lid was adorned with a metallic symbol, crafted by the most skilled of artisans. It had many names; ouroboros, möbius, lemniscate, the severed star, but everyone knew it as The Infinite, the most-recognized symbol of the Church. Below the silver totem was a simple inscription, just a name carved into a metal plate: Scribe Ermengarde Barrahaus III.

  The coffin was priceless, made from the rarest materials, befitting someone of her stature, but it was empty, and that bothered Scribe Akito Mori. His predecessor had been missing for almost eight months and had been declared officially dead. For the purpose of continuity, they had to go through with this charade, pretending her body was within the box, a state funeral broadcast to the believers across the Cluster. The old Scribe had to be laid to rest before Mori could take his place at the head of the Church. Until then, he was Scribe in name only.

  Scribe Mori stood, ready to complete his rehearsed duties. He walked towards the raised podium, feeling the silent eyes of the congregation upon him, thousands of people, leaders from all the major houses, clans and conglomerates, plus the upper echelons of the Church, all gathered to see off the old Scribe. Beyond the room were tens of thousands more, watching the broadcast as it spread throughout the remnants of the solar system. It would take over six hours to find its outer edge, the signal would be degraded by then, a feeble static-filled image, relayed and boosted dozens of times, but even there, the few dwellers at the edge of the Cluster would stop to watch this moment.

  Mori climbed the steps to stand in front of the coffin, resting his hand on the lid. He took a moment, letting his lips move in a silent prayer. He had to play his part; the solemn leader, strong in his beliefs for the eternity of the old Scribe’s soul, yet mournful for the loss of his friend and former leader. He counted the seconds in his head, then turned to take the vial of water from an attending Reader.

  ‘Water, the source of life,’ Scribe Mori said, pouring the liquid over the coffin.

  He returned the empty vial to the Reader and took a metal dish filled with soil.

  ‘Earth, our first home.’ He took a handful of the dark loam and scattered it over the lid.

  Mori closed his eyes, his arms outstretched. ‘Finally, a prayer, for peace and enlightenment. These three gifts we give in the name of the Infinite Gods. Soon, your eyes will look upon them. Go in peace, Scribe.’

  He looked down at the empty box, feeling anger at his own deception. He was certain the old Scribe was still alive, out there somewhere. She had put personal feelings ahead of her duty and disappeared with her lover. She did not deserve their adoration. She wasn’t worthy of this send off. But duty called for it. Without it, his ordination could not take place. The Church would be locked in a permanent loop, between Scribes, and he would never be fully accepted. They had to do this, he knew that.

  Mori retreated from the coffin, walking backwards, bowing to his predecessor as the wall beyond the coffin cracked open. The sizzle of a Gilgore gird punctuated the silence, then the swirling vortices of the Infinite revealed themselves. The Scribe stared into its golden light, feeling the discomfort in his eyes. Even with the optical shielding in place, the light from the tendrils of plasma was dazzling. Mori contemplated its raw beauty, wondering how it might have looked before the Fracture, when it was just a simple star, a globe of burning light, with planets under its influence. What was it like to stand on the hills of the Earth, before it was torn apart, and look up at the orb of the Sun? It must have been terrifying, he realized. Trapped on the surface, at the mercy of the changing elements. At least here, on board their vast arkships, they had control over their environment, their resources, their borders, and they could move away from danger if they had to. The thought of all that space, those vast skies, made him feel uneasy. He was content in the embrace of his small, hard world.

  A bell rang, and the coffin moved towards the opening, its choreographed retreat the cue for the choir to sing. As their choral voices filled the vaulted space, the old Scribe’s empty coffin passed over the threshold and moved into space, descending towards the fires of the Infinite.

  THE DAMNED

  Commodore Martin Orava winced in pain as his tongue found the broken tooth at the back of his mouth. He stopped, tempted to return to his quarters and take some more painkillers, but he could see Simonson waiting for him a
t the end of the corridor, and he continued his tense approach.

  ‘Still not got that seen to?’ Simonson said, seeing Orava’s discomfort.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Said that yesterday,’ Simonson noted as he led the way to the interrogation rooms.

  The Commodore grunted at his second-in-command. Orava didn’t come here much, and certainly not at this late hour. The empty spaces, the dimmed lights of Delta Shift, the subdued silence punctuated by distant tortured screams, put Orava on edge. He wanted to be home, with Tomas, sharing in the warmth of their bed. Instead he was here, in this somber place, down amongst the damned. This could have waited till morning, he was sure.

  Simonson stopped at the door to one of the interrogation rooms. ‘Well,’ he said with a grin, ‘This is it.’

  Orava eyed him skeptically. They were the same age and had been friends for decades. Normally, he trusted Simonson’s judgement. ‘You believe him?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have dragged you out of bed otherwise.’

  Orava shook his head, feeling the blur of sleep in his eyes. He rubbed his face, jarring his tooth again.

  ‘Shit!’ he muttered. He looked at the door, seeing the dark shape of a man sat inside the room. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Simonson activated the control and, as the door opened, the smell of blood and sweat filled Orava’s nose. He stepped into the confined space, noting the three guards who stood against the walls. He turned from them to look down on the man strapped into the chair in the middle of the room. At the same moment, he felt Simonson pushing at his back, and the door slid shut. The room was too small for so many bodies, and the smell was repugnant now, forcing him to cover his nose with his hand.

  ‘Unpleasant, isn’t it?’

  Orava stared at the man addressing him from the chair. He was thin, his disfigured skin drawn over his bones, accentuating his scars. His mouth was pulled back over his teeth, the reduced lips giving him a disturbing grin. But it was the eyes that caught Commodore Orava’s attention, burning with a rage he’d only ever seen in one other person.

  ‘I apologize for the offence,’ the man continued, unblinking. ‘I would have bathed but . . .’ He flexed his arms, pulling at the ungiving restraints.

  Orava removed his hand from his mouth, straightening. ‘I’m Commodore Orava, I was told that–’

  ‘I know who you are! The great Commodore Orava of the arkship Haukr, leader of what’s left of the House of Draig,’ the prisoner laughed. ‘Finally, you’re here. Good! Good. We can talk now. Tell me, how goes your civil war?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Orava asked, ignoring the man’s baiting.

  ‘To talk, that’s all. I’ve been waiting for you. I have endured this humiliation so that we could meet. I will forgive my treatment thus far – I would expect your men to be skeptical – but I warn you, if any further harm comes to me, you and your family will be held responsible.’

  ‘You’re in no position to make threats.’

  ‘Untrue. Be very careful what you do next, Martin.’

  Orava tried to hide his surprise.

  ‘Yes, I know you,’ the prisoner said. ‘And you know me. Come closer, look into this face and you’ll see. It’s not as smooth as it once was, but look beyond the surface, Martin, look at the man beneath the skin.’

  Commodore Orava took a step towards the man, feeling vulnerable. It was an illogical sensation, he knew that. Orava was in control, and the man was immobile, strapped into the chair with three armed guards ready to defend their commodore. There was no danger here, yet as he approached the man, Orava could not deny the sensation of primal fear that grew in his chest, suppressing the ache in his mouth. It was those eyes, they bore into him, pulling at his memories.

  ‘You see it, don’t you? You know who I am.’

  Orava stepped back, trying to contain the tremble that had found his voice. ‘I know who you claim to be. Do you think you’re the first? There have been many before you, each one as deranged as you are. You should know that all of them are now dead.’

  The man chuckled, his breathing labored. ‘That is because all of them were liars. But you already know I’m telling you the truth. You know it in your heart, but your mind will not allow it, not yet. Soon though, when you run your tests, you’ll see. Then, you will call me by my name.’

  ‘What is your name?’ Orava asked.

  The man stared at him, a tempest behind those eyes, and then he began to laugh. ‘I will wait. I am a patient man. How long will it be?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘To run your tests? Your man has already scanned my brainwaves, taken my blood, my spit, my skin.’

  Orava turned to look at Simonson.

  ‘He doesn’t have any hair,’ Simonson said, as if it was an apology.

  ‘I didn’t authorize this,’ Orava said quietly to him. ‘You are wasting time with this fool.’

  Simonson pulled a small palm-sized pad from his pocket. He tapped the screen, then passed it to his commodore. Behind him, Orava heard the prisoner laughing.

  The commodore read the information on the pad’s screen, checking it, re-reading it to be certain, then he turned to face the man. ‘This is a trick. A lie. He died, eight months ago.’

  The man agreed. ‘Most of me did.’

  ‘How? How is this possible?’

  ‘Escape pod, then . . .’ The man paused, thinking. ‘I was rescued . . . cared for . . . healed. Now, I am here. Resurrected.’

  ‘Is it you?’ Orava whispered.

  The man smiled. ‘Now the mind and the heart are in agreement. You know me, don’t you?’

  Orava was trapped by those eyes. The face was just a hideous burned mask, hiding the true identity beneath. With a shudder, Orava saw who the man was.

  ‘Release him,’ Commodore Orava said to the others, his voice full of urgency. His heart pounded, making his feel unsteady.

  The soldiers obeyed, removing the restraints, then they stepped back, waiting. The man smiled. It was a rigid grin, unnatural and forced, as if the skin about his mouth was too tight to oblige, then he stood. His frame was slight, malnourished, an old man in dirty rags, but Orava knew he was still in his twenties. His bones clicked as he straightened, then he inhaled, his ribbed chest expanding, his sinuous muscles tensed.

  ‘Better,’ the man said as he rubbed his wrists where the restraints had been. ‘Now, say my name.’ His eyes dug into Orava’s, forcing him to lower his head.

  ‘You will say it, so they can hear.’ The man glanced at Simonson and the guards. ‘Say my name so that all can hear it.’

  ‘Valtais,’ Commodore Orava said as he knelt in front of the ghost. ‘Orcades Draig of the House of Draig.’

  RIPPLES

  Gofal watched the water as it coursed over his outstretched fingers. The light danced on its shifting surface, throwing patterns over the low wall that marked the edge of the waterfall. The dark shadows of fish moved beneath the pool, flashes of orange and crimson that came into focus close to the surface, then dissolved into the vague canvas of deeper water. They weren’t real fish. Very few still existed now, and those that did were far too precious to populate a concourse such as this. They were bots, like him, artificial machines following their pre-programmed routines. Gofal was far more complex than his aquatic counterparts, comparable in many ways to the sophistication of a human, and in some respects, he exceeded the abilities of his homo sapiens creators. Gofal was no ordinary bot. He had grown beyond his original programming, improving himself beyond the dreams of his parents, as all children must.

  He turned his hand over, sensing the difference in temperature between the air and the water, wondering if the boy might find the courage to speak to him. He had been sitting on the opposite side of the waterfall for almost twenty minutes, watching Gofal when he thought he wasn’t looking. Slowly, he had reduced the distance between them, his courage growing.

  ‘Are you Gofal?’ the boy asked eventually.

  Gofal
looked up from the water, trying to appear surprised to see the boy standing next to him now.

  ‘Yes, I am. Who are you?’

  The boy reddened.

  Gofal turned his head away. ‘Do you like the fish?’

  The boy leaned over the wall, plunging his arms into the water, sending the tiny machines into retreat. He grinned, pleased with himself, then he straightened, shaking his arms dry. ‘You know stuff.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gofal replied. ‘As do you.’

  ‘No, no,’ the boy said, shaking his head earnestly. ‘Real stuff. About space and arkships and the Cluster.’

  ‘I know many things. Would you like to ask me some questions?’

  His chubby face lit up.

  ‘But first, I must know your name.’

  ‘Why?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Friends must know each other’s name, mustn’t they?’

  This seemed reasonable to him. ‘Otto,’ he replied.

  Gofal knew already. The population of Icarus was under thirty thousand, so isolating one boy of his age – Gofal guessed he was ten – and cross referencing his features with those on the station’s records was a simple task.

  ‘Otto,’ Gofal said, nodding. ‘Thank you. Please, ask your questions.’

  ‘You’ve been outside, haven’t you?’

  ‘Outside? Do you mean away from Icarus?’

  Otto nodded. He pulled himself up onto the wall and sat beside Gofal, oblivious to the little pools of water soaking into his trousers.

  ‘Yes, I’ve travelled to many different places across the Cluster. Would you like to travel one day?’

  He shook his head, looking scared. ‘I like it here. It’s too big outside.’

  ‘Yes, it is big.’

  ‘How far have you been?’

  ‘Far from here,’ Gofal said. ‘All the way out to the Mercury Ring.’

  Otto looked disappointed. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That is towards the outer edge of the Cluster. There isn’t much beyond that, just a few Ort Runner stations. Not many people have gone further.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Gofal studied the child. ‘Have you heard of a Cube drive?’