THE SLOWER PATH
Hunter One drifted away from the Gargan, the occupants of its cramped cockpit shrouded in a tense silence.
Halstead fixed his eyes to the windows, thinking through Valine’s plan, trying to avoid Aditsan’s accusatory stare. He would have to talk to him sooner or later. He glanced at the pilot, took a breath, then turned to talk to the Reader.
‘You will not speak of this,’ Halstead warned, glancing between Hitch and Aditsan. ‘We had an engine malfunction, that’s all. We did not board the Gargan.’
‘Oh, really?’ Aditsan said with one of his wild eyebrows raised. ‘Enlighten us. Tell me what really happened, because I’ve got this annoying memory of being held in a Draig detention cell for the last five hours.’
Halstead nodded. ‘I met Valine. She says that Orcades Draig is alive.’
‘She’s probably lying,’ Aditsan replied.
‘She has proof.’
‘And you trust her?’
‘No, but I think she’s telling the truth about this.’
Aditsan shook his head, tutting.
The pilot listened, saying nothing.
‘There is an opportunity to remove Orcades Draig for good,’ Halstead explained. ‘We can kill him alone. No one else has to die.’
‘By working with Valine?’ Reader Aditsan asked.
Halstead avoided his accusing eyes. It was an unthinkable alliance. ‘I have to try.’
‘No, you don’t, Halstead. Why do you have to keep going after him? Why can’t you just stay out of it?’
‘You know I can’t do that!’ Halstead said, raising his voice. ‘We’ve lost too much. Our people have suffered at his hand. He has to be stopped, then this can end. What else am I supposed to do?’
‘You could try forgiveness.’
The suggestion caught Halstead, stalling his thoughts. ‘It’s gone beyond that,’ he replied.
‘You can never go beyond forgiveness. It’s the harder route, the slower path, but you have to try, otherwise you risk becoming like him.’
‘Never!’ Halstead yelled.
Reader Aditsan turned away, folding his arms.
‘Sometimes evil must be destroyed,’ Halstead said, his voice calmer now. ‘Orcades won’t listen to reason, he never does. I’ve tried it before. I offered to surrender, to lay down my life in exchange for peace, but he didn’t listen. You weren’t there, you didn’t see him when he killed Tanis. He was insane.’ He pictured that last encounter, with Orcades wielding a sword. It was an image that still haunted him. ‘I’m tired of the fighting, Elan, it has to end. Valine has offered me a way to do that, and I’m taking it.’
‘It’s a pact with the devil.’
‘Maybe, but it’s worth the price.’
‘Speak to Commander Watson, she’ll say the same as me: it’s a trap.’
‘I’m doing this alone.’
Hitch cleared his throat. ‘So, we’re not going back to the Caerleon?’
‘No. Contact the Firmament,’ Halstead ordered. ‘We’ll go directly there. Inform Commander Watson of our new flight plan.’
The pilot nodded, pulling at the com unit to carry out Halstead’s orders.
Reader Aditsan leaned closer, his wrinkled hand gripping Halstead’s. ‘I hope you’re right about this.’
‘So do I,’ Halstead replied, his mind full of doubts.
THE KNOT
Scribe Mori watched the security feed from Gofal’s cell, wondering what was going through the machine’s mind. He had visited him several times, discussing the future, the past, the dark secrets that were buried in the foundations of the Church, and Mori had found himself warming to his simulated personality. He was articulate, well-informed, and affable. Mori would have liked their conversations to continue, but he knew that wasn’t possible.
Librarian Horst coughed softly, breaking his thoughts. She sat on the other side of his broad desk, separated from him by a vast plane of wood.
‘Sorry,’ he said with a smile. ‘You were saying?’
Horst fumbled with the pad in her hands. ‘We were going over the preparations, Scribe.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The intricate details of the ceremony would have to be perfect. Any hesitation in his voice, any misstep might be construed as a weakness. He stared at the Librarian, his thoughts clogged by his feelings for her. ‘How was your trip? I forgot to ask you earlier.’
She frowned, then banished the expression from her face. ‘I miss Icarus, but it’s only for a few days, and it’s an honor to witness the inauguration of a Scribe.’
It was a diplomatic answer, an arm’s length response, but he liked her nonetheless. ‘And your boy? He’s travelled with you?’
‘Both of my children, yes.’
Mori nodded, remembering. ‘It must be hard with two little ones. Do they miss their father?’ He regretted the question immediately.
Horst reddened, and sadness spoiled her features.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ Mori babbled. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Yes, they miss their father,’ she replied, composing herself. ‘We all do.’
Mori tried to think of a response, aware of the empty air between them. He cursed himself, finding shelter in the image of Gofal on the screen. Mori poured his attention onto the security feed, losing himself in his thoughts.
‘We can continue this later.’ Librarian Horst said, standing to leave.
‘No, please, stay,’ Mori insisted. ‘How far did we get? Point three? My arrival on stage?’
‘Point four,’ Horst corrected, returning to her seat. ‘Okuda’s declaration.’
‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ Mori knew he should give this his full attention, but he couldn’t get the distraction of Gofal out of his mind. He spun the screen round so that Horst could see it.
‘He’s very likeable, isn’t he?’ Mori said.
Surprised, Horst smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’ She leaned over the table, watching the bot. ‘Must he be restrained?’
‘He can be quite dangerous.’
Horst nodded, pulling away.
‘Do you believe him?’ Mori asked, keen to get Horst’s opinion.
‘Believe him?’
‘About knowing the future.’
‘Yes,’ she said. Her cheeks reddened, and she looked down, as if her answer was a confession. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Absolutely. That is why he must be contained. He is a gift from the Gods, and we must accept it with grace. We must use it wisely. We must know what to do with it.’
He smiled at her, hoping she would understand. Mori enjoyed her company, he liked to watch her work, to catch the subtle scent of per perfume when he was close to her, but he sensed that Horst saw things differently to him.
‘This is the start of a new age,’ he explained. ‘A new Scribe is about to be inaugurated, and at the same time the Gods bring me this gift . . .’
‘Well, I think Gofal’s experience happened when the former Scribe was . . .’
Mori held up his hand, and Horst became silent. ‘The Gods have brought us together; you, me and Gofal. There must be purpose in their actions. Surely, they want me to be a good Scribe. They want me to rule with benevolence and wisdom. They want me to write the most perfect version of their gospel, don’t they?’
Horst’s mouth tightened. ‘With the Gods’ grace, I’m sure you will be a just and fair Scribe.’
Mori killed the security feed and activated the table-top holograph beside the screen. The lights in the room dimmed, and the air filled with a lattice of cool blue equations.
‘The plan,’ Mori said, looking at it in awe. ‘Such a beautiful structure, don’t you think? This is true grace. This is how we touch the Gods.’ He manipulated the holograph, zooming into a cluster of numbers that flickered between blue and red.
‘This vertex relates to Gofal – and to me, I think,’ Mori said, turning the three-dimensional image around. ‘It is a point of change that could affect the plan in an u
nknown way. I have tried many variances, but this part of the equation will not resolve itself.’
‘I know,’ Horst said.
Of course she knew. The Librarians worked with the plan daily, testing its outer edges, reporting back to the Scribe and the most senior Readers. Horst was a master mathematician and strategist, she knew the quirks of the plan better than most.
‘So, if the plan will not enlighten me, I must work with my own guidance, my gut instinct, and the help of good friends.’ He smiled openly at her, hoping she would reciprocate, but her response was muted and formal. ‘The plan may be of little help to me, but Gofal can help us through this knot of numbers. He alone holds the key to the future.’
Librarian Horst watched him, thinking, then asked, ‘What will you do?’
‘Gofal will tell me of the future, or he will die.’
APPROACH
The Firmament rose of out the shadows, its spires glinting as the light of the Infinite struck their metallic contours. Its surface seemed to shimmer in the golden glow, as if it was alive, but as his shuttle moved closer, Halstead saw it was the dark text carved into the stone’s polished facets that was the source of the illusion. He marveled at it, trying to take in the grandeur as they slowed to dock.
Halstead turned to share this with Aditsan, but the Reader sat with his eyes closed.
‘You’re missing this,’ Halstead said.
Reader Aditsan inhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath. ‘Seen it before.’
‘But it’s beautiful.’
Aditsan harrumphed, refusing to open his eyes.
Halstead moved closer to the Reader. ‘Do you think this is what the Gods want?’
Finally, Reader Aditsan sat up, glaring at the prince. ‘How the hell should I know?’
‘You’re a Reader. You pray to them, don’t you?’
‘It’s a bit of a one-way conversation. They’re not very chatty.’
‘Will you pray with me?’ Halstead asked, feeling vulnerable. His faith was important to him now, as was the approval of his Reader.
Aditsan sighed, then offered his hand to Halstead. ‘Oh, Gods, we ask for your guidance in this terrible hour. Give this young fool the sense to see how stupid he has become, show him the light so that he can turn the hell around and go home. May your blessings shine upon him.’
The Reader snatched his hand away and retreated into himself.
‘Thanks,’ Halstead said. ‘Very reassuring.’ He returned to the view, watching as they slipped into the shadow of the station. In the reduced light, the stonework began to glisten like crystal, and Halstead’s mind returned to his communion with the Infinite Gods. There had to be a reason for his encounter, and if the Reader wouldn’t guide him then Halstead would have to trust in his own decisions. This felt like the right path.
The pilot took his hands off the control yoke. ‘We’re on full auto now. The Firmament is taking us in.’
Halstead glanced into the ashen clouds behind the station, spotting the tiny dots of other shuttles approaching. One of them would be Valine’s. Another, he hoped, would contain Orcades Draig. Soon, very soon, they would meet for the last time.
DATA
‘I don’t have to go, I can stay here, with you,’ Faron Dulac said.
Bara smiled at him, shaking her head. ‘You know you have to go. Anyway, I want you out of here, then I might get some peace.’
Faron feigned offence, trying not to laugh. ‘Well, I’ll be glad to get out of here anyway. I’ll go get drunk with your husband and talk about you.’
Bara found a cushion beside her on the sofa and hurled it at him. Faron caught it and threw it back at her, falling short of his target.
‘Let’s hope you don’t have to shoot anyone,’ Bara said. ‘And I’ll know if you talk about me.’ She pulled at her ears. ‘These are good!’
Faron picked up his jacket and returned to Bara, kissing her. ‘Don’t do anything stupid today, okay?’
‘Always,’ Bara promised.
He touched her stomach, caressing her as he looked into her deep eyes, wanting to stay. His wrist com beeped for the third time. ‘I’m coming,’ Faron said quickly into the device.
Bara shooed him away playfully. ‘Go have fun with your friends.’
He lingered by the door, feeling a sense of sadness. ‘See you soon.’
The door opened and Faron walked down the private corridor that led from his suite to the hanger bay. It was a short walk, but it gave him the opportunity to focus on the events that lay ahead. There would be another meeting of the Harvest Union to discuss their response to the graviton mine, then the inauguration of the new Scribe, followed by smaller meetings with allies from other arkships. It would be a long day, and Faron would have to be prepared for any outcome, but all his attention remained on Bara. He loved her, and Faron wanted to share the rest of his life with Bara and her son, but he sensed she was holding back. She still loved Prince Halstead, her husband, the father of her son, and Faron couldn’t compete. He would lose her, he’d hide the pain from those around him, shield his emotion behind a mask of confidence and smiles, as he always did. It was a lesson he’d learned years ago, when his parents were killed, and he’d been thrust into leadership. It was the only way he knew how to deal with the isolation and grief. Keep smiling, keep laughing, be the leader his people needed. It had never mattered about the cost, his own feelings had always come second, until now. Since he’d met Bara, Faron had felt those ancient wounds begin to heal. He had learned to trust once more, but now all he felt was uncertainty.
The door opened onto the hanger bay, revealing his shuttle, already prepared to depart. Captain Beric was there, pacing impatiently until he saw Faron approaching him.
‘Sir, you’d better see this,’ Beric said, offering a pad to Faron.
‘What is it?’ he asked, checking the screen.
‘The data from Bara’s ship,’ Beric said as they walked toward the waiting shuttle. ‘That graviton mine was from before the last war, an old bit of kit, but we managed to get a heat trace from it and estimated its origin. We sent a scout back along its trajectory and we found a fleet of arkships.’
‘The House of Draig,’ Faron said, skipping through the report.
Captain Beric nodded heavily. ‘Looks like it came from them.’
‘Which faction?’
‘We’re not sure. The scout got a lock on two of the arkships before it had to get clear, but they were from different sides. Either the civil war has ended or two of the factions are working together now.’
Faron put the pad in his jacket pocket. ‘Send your findings to the rest of the Harvest Union, I’ll speak to them on the Firmament.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Beric replied, stepping back so that the shuttle’s ramp could close.
IMPASSE
The room was exactly three point three meters square, a precise measurement that piqued Gofal’s interest. Why had they chosen that length? Was it significant? Did it hide an arcane meaning? Or was it just a convenient measurement with little significance? Like all things with the Church, its origin seemed to be shrouded in mystery. The walls were white, a composite polymer paint that resisted dirt and dust. The floor was a mirrored black surface that reflected the box of white above, inverting it to a shimmering grey. One surface of black to five planes of white. Did that mean something? The door was the only break in the walls. It was positioned off to the left, away from the edge by five hundred centimeters. Deducting the door and frame left a stretch of wall two meters long on the right side. The two portions of wall formed a ratio of four to one. He’d measured every part of his prison and could not find an elegant solution to the numbers. The only logical conclusion was that the numbers didn’t mean anything, but that just didn’t feel satisfying to Gofal. His long hours of isolation had caused him to try to find meanings in his surroundings, in the vibrations he felt through the floor, in the intervals between the Scribe’s visits. It was a fruitless exercise, but it helped to pass
the time.
Gofal put aside his observations on the room and let his thoughts drift back to his findings in Library One. He wished he had more time to study the archive there. He had to know more about the message from the past. He had found his name in that ancient document, a message across time from the writer to the reader. The probability of coincidence was high – incredibly high! What other explanation could there be? As a thought experiment, Gofal dismissed the possibility of coincidence, and explored the idea that this was a deliberate message from the past addressed to Gofal. Was it even possible? Whoever had written it was almost certainly a machine mind, like Gofal. That allowed for a wider range of possibilities, but even so, the only way the author could have known that Gofal would eventually read it was to entertain the notion of communication, or travel, through time.
As he pondered this, he felt the faint vibration of footsteps approaching the door. He heard the subtle click of the security lock and then the door opened. The Scribe entered, looking distracted.
‘I didn’t expect to see you today,’ Gofal said. ‘How long is it till your inauguration?’
‘Hours,’ Mori replied. ‘That is why I must see you today.’
‘Still looking for answers?’
‘I need to know,’ Mori said, a hint of desperation to his words.
‘Do you believe in time travel?’ Gofal asked.
The Scribe, taken aback, shook his head.
‘The principals of space-time geometry are well defined and allow for time travel to occur, theoretically. In fact, our Cube transit engines are a variant form of space-time distortion . . . quite similar to the principles of time travel in many ways.’
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