Malachi awaited his colleague’s appraisal with reserved eagerness. His first official act had been to order every scrap of information on Jaren Peregrine collected into a single file. Narr had objected to Malachi’s preoccupation with one offender until he saw that Peregrine’s crimes spanned more than a century. Having once consigned the Gen to the same mythical realm as gods and kosts, the old Master now conceded that Malachi was on to something.
The file’s very first entry was a one hundred and five year-old bulletin posted by the Mithgar Port Authority alleging that an adolescent Gen had fled their custody. The report named a female Journeyman as an accomplice. Blessed as she was with prestigious Guild and academic degrees, her defection had sparked a scandal. Though official records presumed her dead, Malachi had no doubt that the same woman currently served as the Gen’s Steersman.
Narr looked up from the most recent report, which dealt with events that Malachi himself had orchestrated. “Tell me,” said Narr, “were you satisfied with the Melanoros raid’s outcome?”
The question lingered as Malachi drained his cup. The bitter taste invigorated him. “Never being satisfied is a virtue in which I pride myself,” he said. “However, the ratio of profit to loss was more than acceptable.”
Narr raised one shaggy eyebrow. “We lost thirteen men.”
“Yes,” Malachi agreed. “And the pirates lost ten, along with their headquarters and a town which gave them trade and safe haven. Thirteen Enforcers were a bargain for such gains.”
“Can you weigh their lives so easily?”
“Sentiment is reason's thief. Yes, thirteen men are dead. There is nothing to be done about it now, and what’s more, nothing could have prevented it.”
“You could have decided not to send them,” said Narr.
“Could I? Tell me Brother, what is the source of a man's actions?”
“His thought.”
Malachi nodded. “And what are thoughts? Do thought and memory not arise from complex chemical reactions in the brain?”
“I suppose they do,” said Narr.
“If a man's consciousness is the product of chemical interaction, then his every thought is dictated by the unyielding laws of matter and energy—as are his actions.” Having made his case, Malachi crossed his arms and reclined in his chair.
Narr’s brow furrowed. “Are you attributing your actions to fate?”
Malachi willed himself not to laugh as he shook his head. “Fate is a primitive abstraction conjured to absolve responsibility. I prefer the hard certainty of determinism.”
“What of the view,” Narr asked, “once popular in some quarters, that individual consciousness is only a fragment of a universal mind?”
“The Nexus?” A snort of laughter escaped Malachi’s mental grasp. “An Atavist fable. We needn’t invoke such entities to explain the workings of the mind. Besides, there is no evidence.”
“Many searched the deep ether for proof,” said Narr. “Even guildsmen.”
“Yet none returned,” Malachi said. “What use is a theory that cannot be verified? Why base one's beliefs on wild conjecture made redundant by well-established fact?”
“You mentioned the workings of the mind,” said Narr. “An apt metaphor, since every Working requires a Factor to mold prana with his thoughts. If it’s true that the same blind forces produce both Workings and Factors, then your own position as a Factor is negated.”
“Only your reductive view of my position,” Malachi said. “You restrict the term ‘Working’ to mean ‘prana fashioned to exert a primarily physical effect’, and you presume that such effects are only produced by willing agents. If one forgoes this arbitrary condition, it becomes clear that the supposed effect, the so-called agent who is said to produce it, the motions of that agent’s mind, the brain where it resides, and the entire cosmos are indeed Workings fashioned by purely mechanical laws.”
“If all being is physical,” said Narr, “then why distinguish between Workings and glamers?”
“You know the equation for finding the maximum amount of prana that a Factor can draw safely?”
“Of course,” Narr said with a hint of indignation.
“Are the formula and the prana it measures the same entity?” Malachi asked rhetorically. “The difference between Workings and glamers is only semantic—a notational crutch for novices. Such conceits were alien to the Mysteries from which our craft evolved.”
“Had I not seen your zeal to exterminate the Gen firsthand,” said Narr, “I’d suspect that you judged their Factors superior to ours.”
“In some respects they are,” Malachi said. “All the more reason to exterminate them.”
Narr’s raised finger said he would have pursued the matter further, but a sudden knock at the door intervened.
“Come,” Malachi said.
A uniformed Enforcer entered bearing an envelope with a golden seal. “A dispatch from Mithgar, Your Excellency,” he said, presenting the packet to Malachi with a gloved hand.
Malachi allowed a smile to flit across his face. “News from Ambassador's Island, I'll wager,” he said. “Mark me Brother, our losses were seeds sown in fertile ground. Now we shall gather the harvest!”
The report’s contents compelled Malachi to press his lips into a thin impassive line. Mithgar Customs had captured scores of pirates, including many who’d escaped Melanoros. Yet not all had gone according to plan.
Malachi set the report on the table. Without looking at the Enforcer he said, “Get me the Mithgar Shipyards.”
12
“How bad is it?” Teg called down a hatch that spewed noisome vapors into the engine room’s sultry air.
Mikelburg hoisted himself out of the hole, wiped his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag, and shook his bald head. “The main cannon’s fused,” he said, “and the starboard torp tube’s jammed. Our good captain wrecked the aft port arm when he breached the hold—not that I wish he’d stayed put and burned. But we can worry about all that later. What you're really asking is, 'How's the Wheel?'”
“How is it?”
Mikelburg sighed. “You can write it off.”
“We don't have parts?”
The engineer snorted. “This ain't about parts. Only the Guild knows how their damned Wheels work. They’re almost alive, and when the ghost’s gone there's no calling it back.”
“You mean it's dead.”
Mikelburg nodded. “It's a good thing Nakvin jumped on the backup, or that ether flare would've killed more than the Wheel.”
“How far can we make it on the auxiliary?” Teg asked.
“We could limp along till the Void takes all, but odds are the Guild will find us first, and we ain't outrunning nobody like this.”
“Well Mike,” said Teg, “time to tell the boss.”
Jaren’s dreams returned to the city. He’d never been there, but he'd dreamed of the place often enough to feel remiss not knowing its name. He stood as always upon a wide straight road paved with golden bricks. Before him lay a vast square lined with stately columned palaces and glorious temple domes resembling nothing he'd seen while awake. The city's grandeur towered over Jaren, and he somehow knew that it was empty.
I’m lost, Jaren realized. Nor could he recall where he’d been going, though his errand was urgent. Again he chose to follow the broad golden road rather than the myriad alleys dotting both sides of the street.
The road spanned hundreds of miles, but in the end it brought him back to where he'd started.
“I've got the damage report,” Teg said, speaking to the darkness that filled the cabin.
Jaren was instantly alert. “What's our situation?” he asked.
“Long story short: we'll be hobbling along till the Wheel's replaced.”
The captain pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. An obsessed Guild Master is after us, our home port is gone, and now we’ve lost our speed advantage! “Understood,” he said. How's Deim?”
“Being
on the Wheel when it died shook him up,” said Teg. “But you know kids these days. Made of rubber. What's the plan?”
“There's a derelict freighter somewhere in the Jeweled Sea nebula,” Jaren said. “It’s not far from here. We find the ship, salvage its cargo, and head for a port where we can sell it.”
A skeptical light gleamed in Teg’s brown eyes. “You think Fallon’s buyer will show.”
“To hell with him and his buyer,” Jaren said. “I'll sell the captain's tea service to your grandmother if it’s all we find—whatever it takes to get us back in fighting form.”
“She could use a new sugar bowl,” said Teg.
The nebula did indeed lie within easy reach, even for a ship in the Shibboleth’s battered condition. But Jaren knew that finding a lost freighter in the shimmering ocean of cosmic dust would be a daunting task, with or without Fallon’s map.
Jaren descended to a small station off the engine room. There Nakvin stood alone upon the backup Wheel’s luminous circle, as she had since she’d steered them safely through the ether flare. The captain saw that his Steersman's eyes were heavy with fatigue—and another affliction he couldn't quite place. “It's quiet down here,” he said.
“Silence helps me think.”
Jaren ambled up to the Wheel and leaned on the railing. “About what?”
“Kelgrun,” Nakvin said.
“He’s always two steps ahead of the Guild. Malachi won’t change that.”
“I’m worried about him.”
“If I were you,” said Jaren, I’d be more lonely than worried.”
Nakvin regarded her captain coolly. “If you were me, you wouldn't have taken a job from a total stranger.”
“I’m not sure we did,” Jaren said. “Are you ready to tell me who Fallon is?”
“I didn't recognize him.”
“No, but you recognized something about him.”
Nakvin sighed. “He is to us what we are to the Guild,” she said. “Something they can't understand or quantify. That’s why we scare them.”
Jaren frowned. “The Guild wouldn’t see a difference between him and us.”
Nakvin's silver eyes widened.
“You see my point?” Jaren asked.
“No,” she said. “I see them.”
What Jaren saw when he went topside was the aftermath of a tragedy. Just beyond the bridge’s clear half dome, a spindle-shaped hulk drifted in the rainbow curtain, caught in the embrace of a Guild corvette’s grappling arms. No lights burned aboard either ship.
“That wreck looks pretty recent,” said Teg.
“What happened?” asked Deim. The junior steersman’s olive skin looked a bit ashen, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear.
“Simple,” said Teg. “Both sides killed each other.”
“Are we sure nobody's home?” Deim asked.
“There's no prana flowing to either ship’s engine,” Nakvin sent from below, “and neither one’s sending a distress call.”
Jaren pointed to Teg and Deim. “You’re coming with me. We make sure the corvette’s empty first. Then we take the score.”
“It’ll go faster if I check the corvette,” said Deim.
Jaren didn’t waste time questioning his junior steersman’s offer. Instead he gave a curt nod and said, “Everyone else stays here in case someone comes looking for us.”
“Like robbing a couple of corpses,” said Teg.
Jaren and Teg had just entered the freighter’s airlock when Deim called. “I'm in,” he sent from Guild ship.
“Good,” Jaren sent back. “Head to the bridge, and check the Wheel.”
Teg approached the hatch between the freighter’s airlock and its interior and applied the Formula. Pronouncing it safe, he opened the door. He and Jaren struggled to keep their footing as the air in the boarding tube blew through the hatch.
“Hull's breached somewhere,” Teg observed.
Jaren shot Teg a reproachful look. “Keep your aura up,” he said before climbing through the hatch and into frigid blackness. His hand light found the corridors clear. In a lifeless stateroom to one side, its beam fell on disarrayed furnishings.
“A vessel this size carries between fifty and a hundred crew,” Jaren said when Teg joined him. “Adding twenty Enforcers from the corvette, this place should be a mass grave.”
“Where did everybody go?” asked Teg.
“No idea. Hopefully we'll find some answers on the bridge.”
Searching the derelict felt less real to Jaren than a dream. His aura kept out all local scents and most of the chilling cold. The lack of air smothered all sound, and the absence of gravity made him feel like a ghost drifting through the lonely halls.
When they reached the wheelhouse, Jaren waited for Teg to inspect the door. He’d hoped to find some of the instruments still running, but all of the panels were dark.
Teg passed his hand over the wall in search of a light switch and touched a thin plate of polished metal. The glow of his ether torch revealed the abandoned ship's dedication plaque. “The Eye of the Void,” he read aloud, exaggerating each word. “Why couldn't it be the Sugar Pie? Or even the Merry Widow?”
Jaren swept his light across the room and found it no less empty than anywhere else they’d looked. “Let's get this over with.” he said. Then he turned and started for the hold.
“What a haul,” Jaren said after he’d cut his way into the locked hold. “A few drums of ether and a week’s worth of provisions.”
“And that,” said Teg, pointing to a small chest wedged between two crates.
“Yes,” Jaren agreed. “That.” Approaching the chest, he remembered that Deim had called this job a treasure hunt. The box was made from rich, red-hued wood and resembled a foot locker. Though unembellished, it boasted hand-forged brass fittings.
“How quaint,” Jaren said.
“Archaic, I’d say,” added Teg. “Although the lock isn’t.” He bent to examine the device. “Definitely Kethan,” he said. “State of the art tungsten alloy.”
“Will it cut?”
“I’d rather test that back on the Shibboleth.”
“No time for excessive caution,” said Jaren. “Cut it.”
Teg tried his splinterknife on the box's latch. The blade hurtled across the room in a shower of sparks.
Teg rounded on Jaren. “That is why you should always use excessive caution!”
Jaren raised his palms in a placating gesture. Teg looked poised to continue his scolding, but a series of impacts running through the deck interrupted him. Both men drew their guns and rounded on the source of the disturbance.
“Hi,” Deim said uncertainly, his fist frozen in the act of knocking on the breached door.
Jaren lowered his zephyr. Teg did not. “What did you find?” Jaren asked.
“Not much,” said Deim. “The Guild crew left one of their tin cans behind. I put it out of my misery.”
“You crossed paths with a Worked Enforcer and didn’t think to warn us?” Jaren said.
Deim shrugged. “No sendings between ships once the job starts, right?”
Teg holstered his gun. “He’s got a point.”
“I’ll have Mike start loading those provisions,” Jaren said. “You two grab that crate.”
Jaren’s patience was wearing thin. He’d stood idle while Teg, Deim, and Nakvin struggled with the chest in the Shibboleth’s hold. Thus far, the obstinate contraption had been picked, cut, and counter-Worked to no avail. Teg had finally picked the lock, but the lid refused to open.
“It's definitely Worked,” Nakvin said. “Old, too. I had one like it back on Mithgar.”
“Was there a secret to opening yours?” asked Deim.
Nakvin shook her head. “Mine wasn't Worked. It was just made in a similar style.”
Jaren strode forward, his sword's blade humming. “I'm getting tired of this.”
“You saw my knife,” said Teg. “If you want to see that pig-sticker fly, keep it up.”
Jaren sullenly returned his blade to its sheath. “What then?”
“I don't know,” said Teg. “Fallon told us where to find this thing; not how to open it.”
Hearing their dubious benefactor’s name gave Jaren a flash of insight. He gestured at Deim. “Hand me Fallon’s card.”
The junior steersman complied. Jaren held the thin slice of smoked crystal up to the light. Luminous rows of text scrolled across its face, reiterating the terms of their agreement and giving speculative directions to The Eye of the Void. Jaren crouched down and slid the crystal sheet into the seam under the chest’s lid. He tried to prevent the card from going all the way in, but it slipped through his fingers. Taking a deep breath, the captain tried the box once more. It sprang open so easily that he almost fell backward.
Jaren steadied himself and peered into the crate. He saw a smooth stone surface etched with evenly spaced, perpendicular lines. It must be a secondary vault, he thought. Turning to Nakvin he asked, “Is it Worked?”
“Not Worked,” she said. “Glamered.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Teg.
“Objects are Worked,” Nakvin said. “Living things are glamered.”
Deim glowered at the crate as if it contained a large and aggressive spider. “You think it's transessence?”
Nakvin regarded the box with a puzzled frown. “They don't seem like inanimate objects given artificial life. More like the other way around.”
Jaren reached carefully into the crate and gingerly slid a four inch stone cube from its resting place. Its weight was strange in his hand: far lighter than he would have expected.
“There must be a hundred of these things,” said Teg.
“Yeah,” said Deim, “but what should we do with them?”
“We go to the nearest friendly port,” Jaren said, never taking his eyes from the cube. “And we sell them.”
13
Marshal Malachi traipsed along the main concourse of the Mithgar shipyards. The transparent wall on his left granted a stunning view of the First Sphere from the orbit of its moon. The elemental air sealed in by the glass had an intangible quality more befitting a lush forest floor than a space station.
Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Page 7