The Thousand Emperors fd-2

by Gary Gibson

  Stop. You’re telling him too much.

  Jacob felt abruptly ashamed of himself. ‘The details aren’t your concern,’ he said, quickly changing the subject. ‘How long before we reach this well?’

  ‘We’re just about there,’ said Kulic, leaning forward to mutter in his nag’s ear as the road took another sharp turn.

  Jacob sat up as they turned into a clearing, at the centre of which stood the ruins of a stone building that surrounded a flag-stoned courtyard on three sides. A decrepit-looking well stood at the courtyard’s centre.

  The courtyard, like the ruins, had become overgrown with bushes and weeds that pushed through cracks in the flagstones. Jacob walked around for a bit after climbing down from the cart, stretching tired limbs and massaging the muscles in his thighs. Kulic meanwhile guided his horse to some long grass, looping the animal’s reins around a low branch. Jacob watched as the old man then stepped over to the well, staring down into its inky depths.

  Jacob came up beside him. ‘What we’re looking for is down there?’

  ‘It is,’ Kulic replied, reaching down to grab one end of a frayed-looking rope that hung over the lip of the well. He began hauling on it, hand over hand, in much the same way he had retrieved his father’s transceiver from the depths of a barrel. He struggled, however, and Jacob ended up doing most of the work, feeling the rope tremble and sway as something heavy connected to its other end swung from side to side in the depths below.

  A large bundle, wrapped in more waterproof oilskins and bound up in rope, emerged into the evening light. They heaved it up the rest of the way, manhandling it over the lip of the well and onto the weedy flagstones by their feet.

  Jacob glanced back down the well, thinking.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Kulic, seeing Jacob’s attention was elsewhere.

  Jacob bent at the knees, picking up a rock and dropping it into the well. Several seconds passed before he heard a splash.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Jacob, glancing at the sodden rope tightly bound around the oilskin-wrapped bundle. ‘Do we have anything that can cut this rope?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Kulic, returning to his horse and producing a long knife from his saddle-pack. He used it to saw through the ropes, then stepped back so that Jacob could peel away the oilskins, revealing a heavy wooden chest.

  Jacob opened the chest, lifting out some of the precious gifts that lay inside; various pieces of modular equipment and, most importantly, a plastic case containing another pin-sized transceiver, which sprang to life as soon as he picked it up.

  He nodded with grim satisfaction at the new data the transceiver contained. Clearly, Sillars had been hard at work prior to his murder at the hands of his fellow agents. Indeed, given what the transceiver was telling him, Sillars had more than made up for the failings of his compatriots.

  Jacob pulled off the ragged shirt and trousers given him by Kulic, wadding them up and dropping them into the well. Then he placed the miniature transceiver back in its case and pocketed it, before studying the rest of the chest’s contents. He discovered several pocket-sized A-M mines, each of which could gouge a crater a mile wide, along with a collection of slim metallic components that, separately, did not appear to have any immediate use but, when snapped together in the right order, comprised a powerful beam-based weapon scarcely less devastating than the mines. It was designed to be broken into parts that would each fit in the pockets and hidden recesses of his combat suit.

  He quickly packed the contents of the chest about his person before standing and nodding towards the ruins surrounding the well.

  ‘There’s a cellar under this building,’ he announced to Kulic.

  The old man peered towards the ruins, seeing only weeds, rotted wood and a few bricks outlining the position of the building’s foundations. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Sillars left a message when he buried all this,’ Jacob explained, unconsciously brushing one hand against the pocket in which he had placed Sillars’ transceiver. He then stepped amongst the ruins of the building, pushing past a tangle of sharp-bladed bushes until he came to some half-rotten floorboards, which he stamped on with one foot until one of them cracked, fragments of it dropping into the darkness below.

  Jacob pulled on a pair of gloves and began tearing away the clumps of bush and weed around him until more planks were exposed. He could just make out a dim shape in the darkness of the cellar beneath him, hidden under half-rotten rags that had been draped over it.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ Jacob grunted, bending down to lift one end of a plank.

  Kulic stepped gingerly over, helping to clear away some more of the weeds covering one end of the plank. The plank shattered unexpectedly, the end Jacob was grasping nearly catching him under the chin as it angled upwards. Jacob batted it away, watching it drop into the space below.

  They worked like this for several minutes, smashing or lifting planks, although Kulic proved too weak and slow to be of any real practical use. But he worked uncomplainingly, for which Jacob was grateful, until the cellar had been exposed sufficiently that Jacob could drop down into the darkened space below.

  ‘What is that thing down there?’ Kulic called down, his voice querulous.

  ‘A flier,’ said Jacob, stripping away the rotting sheets covering it.

  The machine was a product of Coalition science, easily more advanced than even the starship that had brought him to Darwin. Its hull still gleamed despite its long years buried in dust and filth, and when Jacob reached out to touch its smooth hull with his bare fingertips, it shivered almost as if it were alive.

  In a sense, the vehicle was alive. According to Sillars’ own memories, encoded within his transceiver, the distinction between organic and inorganic technology within the Coalition had by now become entirely academic. The flier could think and feel, after a fashion, and as his fingers brushed its skin, Jacob could sense something very much like loneliness radiating from it after so many long decades of waiting.

  Jacob climbed back out of the cellar and dusted himself off with a grimace, before using the last of Kulic’s beer to wash the worst of the filth from his hands.

  ‘Step back,’ Jacob told him.

  Kulic goggled as a low, grating hum began to resonate through the air, more dirt and wood tumbling into the cellar as the hum grew. The flier rose slightly from its resting place, pushing against those few planks that still remained in place. They soon snapped under the strain, tumbling down or spinning away as the flier’s AG field took hold of them.

  The flier rose into the air above the ruined cellar, shedding yet more dirt, twigs, and bird-shit in the process. Kulic stared up at the craft in stupefaction as it moved towards a patch of clear ground next to the ruins, where it dropped back down and came to a rest.

  Kulic turned to gape at Jacob, his eyes shining with undisguised awe. ‘And all this time . . . it was just waiting there? I never knew!’

  ‘Sillars never told the others about it – not Bruehl, and not even your father. He didn’t trust anyone else with the knowledge.’

  ‘And it was lying here all this time just waiting for you?’

  ‘For someone like me, yes,’ Jacob explained. ‘That was your father’s job, as it was Bruehl’s and Sillars’ – to find ways to exploit and subvert the Coalition’s security networks, and make it possible for me to fulfil my duty.’ Sillars had transformed the flier into a weapon no less deadly and efficient than any of the devices packed into the case that had so aroused Kulic’s curiosity.

  Jacob stretched and flexed his fingers inside their gloves until he could feel the bones and muscles pop and stretch. A memory came to him, of long-ago training camps, where he had been forced to crawl through muck and dirt one day, then dart across boulder-strewn craters in near zero gee the next, while mechants armed with live weaponry attempted to gun him down. By the time his training had finished, he had learned dozens of new ways to kill people.

  Kulic must have seen something in his expressio
n. His face grew pale, and he started to back away, glancing towards his horse and cart still tied up nearby.

  ‘I’ll do anything I can to help you complete your mission,’ Kulic stammered, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down as he swallowed. His voice took on a whining tone. ‘I helped you out of the woods and hid you. I . . .’

  ‘I know that,’ said Jacob, his voice soothing as he stepped closer to the old man. ‘And I’m grateful, really I am. But the fact is this mission is much too important to take any risks. Your father would have understood that.’

  ‘Is it because I tried to open that case?’ Kulic cried out, still backing away towards the well. ‘I didn’t mean any harm, I, I was just curious . . .’

  Kulic nearly stumbled over a rock hidden amongst the weeds. Jacob glanced towards the well, and Kulic caught the look, glancing over at it himself before turning back to regard Jacob with bottomless terror.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Kulic whispered, his breath coming in shaky gasps. His ancient watery eyes stared at Jacob with something almost like longing.

  He turned to run, but Jacob lunged forward, grabbing Kulic from behind before he could so much as put one foot in front of the other. Wrapping long, strangler’s fingers around the old man’s throat, he pulled him close in what was almost a lover’s embrace.

  ‘I promise this will be quick,’ he whispered, and began to squeeze.

  FIFTEEN

  Luc.

  He opened his eyes to see Winchell Antonov, one hand clasped to his injured shoulder, leaning over him. Antonov’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, blood pooling at his feet.

  He was back on the bridge of the starship, tied to a chair.

  Luc glared dully up at the other man. I could get really sick of this.

  Antonov laughed. That’s the spirit! His expression suddenly changed and he grunted with pain, his face shiny and pale. Tell me, how are you sleeping these days, Luc?

  Badly. If the lattice winds up killing me, then you die too – or didn’t you think of that?

  But not before you finish what needs finishing. If it wasn’t for Zelia, you’d be in Cripps’ hands by now, and almost certainly dead. But there are things you need to do that even she can’t help you with.

  I can’t see one reason, Luc spat, for me to believe one damn word that comes out of your treacherous mouth.

  Really? Antonov’s expression was cynical. And just how grateful have the Temur Council been to you, for all your service in their name? All those years you spent squirrelled away inside Archives, doing everything you could to try and figure where I was or what I might do next – just how much have they rewarded you for all that effort?

  I’m not interested in your fucking propaganda. Just . . . let me wake up, and get the fuck out of my head.

  No. You’ve seen enough of the Council to have an idea of who and what some of them really are, but you’re still struggling to accept the truth. They’re monsters, even Zelia – and she’s one of the better ones.

  And you think you were better?

  Antonov hacked out a cough before answering, flecks of blood on his lips. You’re closer than almost anyone else ever has been, to finding out things Cheng would rather keep hidden from view forever. Neither he nor his cronies can be sure just what I might have done to you while you were wandering around inside Aeschere. And because of that, every last one of them – particularly those damn Eighty-Fivers – would rather see you dead than take a chance you might know something you shouldn’t. If not for Zelia, they probably would have killed you anyway, on the pretext that you might – just might – have been working for me all along.

  You botched up, Luc said wearily. You told me to speak to Ambassador Sachs, but he didn’t seem interested in helping anyone, least of all me.

  You need to gain his trust, Antonov replied. He saw me lurking inside you, but can’t be sure yet of your motives, or who you might decide to report to if he tells you too much.

  Luc shook his head in disbelief. Gain his trust? Do you even know where I am just now? Or what’s happened to me?

  You’re exactly where I wanted you to be.

  Waiting to die in the snow?

  You’re not dead, Luc. In fact, you’ve already been rescued. Haven’t you worked out yet that I’m the reason you came here in the first place?

  Bullshit, Luc snapped. I came out here looking for the Ambassador after he—

  Think back, said Antonov, to when you were studying that map of Vanaheim.

  Luc recalled the globe Zelia had projected into the air. He had looked towards the range of mountains, and felt a twinge of pain behind his eyes . . .

  Luc’s fists tightened under his restraints. Something had drawn him towards those mountains, and to Maxwell’s prison.

  You did that to me? he demanded.

  I needed you to come here, Antonov replied.

  But why?

  Because you need to hear the truth about Vasili, and about me – and Cheng, too.

  You told me there’d be some terrible calamity without the Ambassador’s help. Are you talking about war with the Coalition?

  Antonov was growing visibly weaker. Believe me, he said, there are far, far worse things out there than the Coalition.

  The cobalt blues and dark metallic greys surrounding them were beginning to lose definition, as if Luc’s eyes were blurring. He sensed their encounter was coming to an end.

  You need to tell me more, he insisted. I know you’re holding something back.

  But sometimes there’s so much I can’t remember myself, Antonov replied, his voice weak and pitiful. The air between them seemed to ripple. There’s only a fragment of me inside you, and it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

  The starship bridge faded, and was replaced by a different scene. Luc saw the streets of a biome on some airless world, unwinking stars fixed into the firmament beyond its precious pocket of atmosphere. Men and women, their flesh riddled with terrible pustules, lay scattered around. Other figures in contamination suits, their faces just visible behind wraparound visors, moved from body to body. They were taking measurements of some kind.

  He found his attention drawn to one suited figure in particular, and after a moment he recognized the face behind the visor. Zelia.

  Luc came awake with a start, to find himself in a room filled with books.

  He had been laid out on a couch at the centre of a large hexagonal room, high walls of dark granite supporting recessed shelves crammed with hundreds of bound volumes much like those he had seen in Vasili’s residence. The floor was tiled with dark slate, while soft, pearlescent light shone through translucent ceiling tiles. A single door led out of the room, while his cold-weather gear had been dumped in a pile in one corner.

  He looked around, feeling wildly disoriented. From staggering through endless snowy wastes . . . to this.

  Sitting up, he winced with pain. The muscles of both legs throbbed, and he massaged his calves with both hands until the cramp lessened. He stood carefully, stretching his legs before reaching out to pull a random volume down from a shelf close at hand.

  The book turned out to be filled with what appeared to be proofs of mathematical equations. Before being summoned to Vasili’s residence, Luc – in common with most citizens of the Tian Di – had only rarely encountered actual, physical volumes such as this. They were like the relic of a past and better age. The pages felt cool to the touch, even slightly metallic, indeed much like the one he had pulled out from under Vasili’s half-burned corpse . . .

  He froze, remembering what had happened when his fingers had brushed against the pages of that particular volume, and closed the book carefully before placing it back where it had come from.

  Taking a step back, he regarded the shelves around him with new eyes. That other book – the one in Vasili’s library, that had transported him into the mind of a dead man – might not officially exist, but if he was, as seemed likely, somewhere inside the prison that had held Javier Maxwell for all these centuries
, then maybe that first book had originated from here.

  If that was the case, then it might be best not to touch any of the books. That first experience had been traumatic enough.

  He tried again to contact de Almeida, but had no more luck than before. It looked like he was still on his own.

  The only thing left was to explore, so he pulled open the one door leading out of the room – and felt the breath catch in his throat at what he beheld.

  The room he had been left to wake in proved to be little more than an antechamber to a vast, cathedral-like space. He saw an arched ceiling at least twenty metres overhead, from which hung chandeliers supported by heavy steel chains. And all around, rising up the walls and accessible by a multitude of narrow metal stairways and walkways, were tens of thousands more books. More physical, tactile volumes than he might ever have believed existed anywhere within the Tian Di, let alone Vanaheim.

  If this really was Maxwell’s prison, it was a hell of a luxurious one.

  Luc turned to look down the other end of the hall and saw an elderly man regarding him from a few metres away. The old man’s narrow skull was topped with a fringe of white hair. A long robe hung loose on his bony shoulders, while a faint nimbus of light around his head and upper shoulders indicated he was a data-ghost.

  ‘You must be . . .’

  ‘Javier Maxwell,’ said the data-ghost in a reedy voice, the eyes bright blue and full of intelligence. ‘You were close to dying out there in the snow, did you know that?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Luc, ‘for saving me.’

  Maxwell cast his gaze up towards the ceiling and back down. ‘You know where you are?’

  ‘This is where they keep you locked up.’

  ‘I fear you already know more about me than I know about you, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Archivist Luc Gabion.’

  Maxwell nodded as if coming to a conclusion. ‘You’re clearly not a member of the Temur Council, are you?’

  ‘I’m not, no.’

  ‘An assassin, then?’