Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1)

by Brian Niemeier

  “You can have it back,” Deim told the man who'd tried to murder him. A pencil-thin silver line shot from the amber eye and into the guildsman’s chest, leaving him a mummified corpse in fine silk robes.

  That left two Worked Enforcers, both of which advanced on Teg. He dropped the salamander, drew his guns, and shot four times. One shot missed. Two bounced off the Enforcers’ dense hides, and one shot shattered the right tin can’s lidless eye. It shrieked like a stabbed cat as it fell.

  “Hold them off!” Jaren said. He struggled to cut through the brig’s reinforced hatch while keeping one eye on his friends.

  Deim released the Working he’d meant for the guildsman. Thin layers of moisture coated and evaporated from the Enforcer’s gangling body in rapid succession, wreathing it in hissing fog. Jaren had seen the same Working freeze a man solid, but the cold hindered the tin can no more than the salamander’s flame.

  The Enforcer lunged at Teg. He got most of himself clear, but two metal claws pierced his left boot and embedded themselves in the deck plating. Teg’s face contorted in pain, and Jaren was amazed that he didn’t scream.

  With a vengeful snarl, Teg jammed a zephyr in the Enforcer's eye track and emptied the magazine. The whirring monster shuddered to a halt. Muttering a curse that would make Ostrith dock hands blush, Teg pulled the scythes from his foot and limped toward the door.

  Jaren cut through the last bolt as Teg approached. Together, they turned the massive slab aside and peered into the cell block beyond. Jaren’s cry of rage brought Deim running.

  “What?” the steersman asked when he reached the captain's side.

  Jaren struck his fist against the door frame. “They're not here.”

  Suddenly, Jaren’s sending stud filled his ear with Nakvin’s voice. “The freighter just launched a Guild courier,” she said.

  The Guild ship emerged from the freighter’s hold like the hungry offspring of an ocean predator. Nakvin felt panic race up her spine as the smaller vessel moved into firing position. A terrible choice confronted her: to detach from the prison ship, leaving Jaren and his crew stranded; or to stay at her post where the courier could take the Shibboleth apart at leisure.

  Before she could decide, a calm yet authoritative voice addressed her via ship-to-ship sending. “This is Master Steersman Marshal Malachi. Can you hear me, Peregrine? I should think not, actually. You'll be aboard the transport, which you've no doubt discovered is not carrying your men.”

  Numbness crept into Nakvin’s limbs. This was the man who’d driven the pirates from Tharis and followed them to Ambassador’s Island. If he’d hunted them this far, he was either impossibly dedicated or dangerously obsessed.

  “To whom am I speaking?” Malachi asked. “Judging by your superior technique, I presume it to be our wayward Sister. Since I am unable to raise my colleagues aboard the transport, will you please contact your captain and inform him that he will surrender his ship and crew immediately? I shouldn't have to explain what will occur if he fails to comply.”

  Feeling oddly detached, Nakvin moved to activate the sending. But the smooth, confident voice interrupted once again. “Inform him that the prisoners are in custody aboard my ship.”

  In the transport's empty brig, Jaren heard Malachi’s message relayed through Nakvin. His wrath seemed to collapse upon itself until it became an infinitely dense point of fire.

  “At least we know where the prisoners are,” Teg said as he wrapped his foot in gauze.

  “Enough sarcasm,” Jaren said through gritted teeth. “We walked into another trap.”

  Deim met Jaren’s burning glare with unwavering eyes. “Tell us the plan.”

  The captain fell silent. At last he said, “We have two choices. Option one: Deim takes the Wheel of this ship and turns it against Malachi.”

  “Don't you think the slippery bastard’s expecting that?” Teg asked.

  Jaren nodded. “We'll find the weapons offline, but we might be able to distract him long enough for Nakvin to get clear. Then we can double-team the courier, but the hostages are as good as dead.”

  Deim's face darkened.

  “The other option is to feign surrender and try to seize his vessel when we're taken in.”

  A glimmer of hope returned to the steersman's eyes, until Teg spoke. “You've got about the same risk of hostage casualties there, and the rest of us will be more exposed. Besides, for that plan to work the courier has to be the only hostile ship, and I guarantee you that more are on the way.”

  “We take the first option,” Jaren said. “Deim, you're with me on the bridge. Teg, help the boys finish off the stragglers. Then check the ship’s weapons. Let’s show Malachi that cornered prey can turn on him.”

  Malachi stood at the Wheel of his courier, watching the two intertwined vessels. Five minutes had passed since he'd issued his ultimatum. If the Gen hadn’t surrendered by now, he never would.

  The Master had anticipated Peregrine’s stubbornness. He had not, however, rigged the transport with explosives or tampered with the Wheel. Malachi only valued victories he earned, and he wasn't above taking the field to do so. Two Guild corvettes were en route, but he doubted they'd be needed. If his quarry wished to test him in battle, he would oblige.

  “Open fire on the Shibboleth,” Malachi ordered the forward torp gunner. “Aim to cripple, not to destroy.”

  The torpedo impact threw Nakvin flat onto the Wheel. Regaining her senses, she searched her mental connection to the Shibboleth and found the port wingtip shattered.

  Suddenly, Nakvin realized the futility of the situation. Over on the transport, Jaren was no doubt setting a plan in motion. But it was too little, too late. Nakvin’s hope that a place remained for her and Jaren was foolish denial. Their time was long past, and Malachi was simply an agent of inevitable change. Even if they defeated him, another would take his place.

  The Steersman rose, smoothed her robes, and resigned herself to whatever came next.

  16

  Jaren’s prediction about the prison transport’s weapons proved frustratingly accurate. Besides an archaic Wheel platform, most of the converted freighter’s bridge stations were nothing but empty frames.

  “See if the Wheel has gunnery control,” Jaren said.

  Deim leapt to the top of the circular dais and fashioned a connection to the Wheel. After a few moments’ concentration, his dynamic posture sagged. “I can’t feel any weapons,” he said. “Maybe they cut the connections.”

  “Or they stripped all the guns,” said Jaren. “Any luck on your end?” he sent to Teg, who’d taken the others to search the ship.

  “No,” came Teg’s curt reply.

  Without warning, the freighter swung wide to starboard. Jaren barely kept his feet as the bridge tilted. A tremor reverberated up from the deck plates and through his body. Someone’s firing on us! Jaren realized, and he thanked whatever powers were listening for the near miss.

  The odd sense of being lifted several feet and dropped back into his boots struck Jaren when the next shot found its mark. The violent rocking forced him to his knees. “Deim!” he yelled over the impact’s echoing boom.

  “Hit the deck,” Deim warned after the fact.

  Jaren did the opposite. He bolted to his feet and gripped the Wheel railing. “What the hell is going on out there?”

  “Sorry,” said Deim. “Malachi’s ship was firing on the Shibboleth, so I rolled us to get her out of harm’s way.”

  Jaren scanned the denuded bridge. Lacking monitors, or even a window, he had no eyes on the battle but Deim’s. “What’s our condition?” he asked.

  “A torp hit us mid-keel. I can’t tell how bad the damage is.”

  “Doesn’t matter much at this point.”

  Jaren saw a mischievous gleam in Deim’s dark eyes. “Then we’ve still got one weapon.”

  Malachi watched the transport's maneuver with keen interest. He didn’t know much about Peregrine's junior steersman, but the clumsy display shed some light o
n the young man's character. Since he was taking a seven hundred thousand ton freighter through a rolling turn while attached to a ship one third its size, he was either very immature or extremely desperate. Most likely both.

  Skilled though his turncoat sister was, her pupil confirmed the Guild’s wisdom in forbidding Magi to teach without a Master’s oversight. When the prison transport came about, Malachi turned to his aft gunner. “Prepare to fire on my command,” he said.

  Jaren knew Deim’s intentions when he felt the sharp backward tug of forward acceleration. “You’re going to ram them?”

  “This is a Guild ship,” said Deim. “Who cares if we dent it?”

  Jaren had to concede the point. “What’s Malachi doing now?”

  “The courier’s at a full stop,” said Deim.

  “They’re probably going to unload their whole forward battery on us.”

  Deim shrugged. “We’ve got enough mass to absorb their fire until impact. Hang on.”

  Jaren gripped the rail in anticipation of the courier’s barrage. But the thunder of multiple impacts never came. Looking unfazed, Deim held his collision course and braced for the crash.

  That, too, never came.

  From his excellent vantage point on the courier's bridge, Malachi imagined himself in his youthful opponent’s place. He would be used to piloting light, agile craft, and would have grown reliant on their agility. He would therefore attempt to apply his default flying style to the freighter. He would also have no idea how the presence of a grappled ship would affect the steering of his own.

  Malachi, on the other hand, had flown ether-runners of every tonnage and hull type. He had also spent considerable time acquainting himself with the same freighter that the young pirate had commandeered.

  As predicted, the hulking vessel veered to starboard under the attached frigate’s influence. Instead of ramming the courier, the prison transport passed above it and to port.

  A few seconds after the freighter overshot him, Malachi gave the gunners their orders. “Fire the aft cannon and torpedo tube. Their engines have priority.”

  Blood vessels in Deim’s forehead bulged as the freighter lurched into a slow turn.

  “What happened?” Jaren asked just before two overlapping shockwaves surged forward from the stern. Having expected a major frontal impact, he instead pitched forward onto the deck. He picked himself up, gritting his teeth over the sting of fresh bruises, and rounded on Deim. “You overshot them!”

  “We’ve lost engines,” the steersman groaned.

  “Fight’s over,” Jaren said, relaying the order via sending. “Get to the boarding tube.”

  Deim vaulted from the Wheel and raced toward the exit. Jaren hobbled after him.

  Malachi brought his courier about to find the prison transport adrift and the Shibboleth driven to flight. He marked the black frigate’s path by the patches of stars that were blotted out as it fled, and he set an intercept course.

  His quarry was quick for its age, and it enjoyed a small head start over Malachi's vessel, but its wounds had slowed it. The Guild Master felt a curious mix of eagerness and regret as he ran the last Gen down.

  A sudden wrenching at the courier's aft segment jogged Malachi back to alertness. He gave the Wheel his full attention and gasped at what it showed him. A medium cargo hauler older than the prison ship had punched its single grappling arm through the courier's hull. Whoever was piloting the aged vessel—almost certainly one of the Gen's confederates—had known to attack Malachi's blind spot. Yet, the grappler hadn’t latched onto an airlock. It had broken into the hold.

  Though he granted the tactical advantage of striking a hidden blow, Malachi failed to see the use of attaching a grappler. The hold would quickly decompress, making a boarding action suicidal even with personal auras.

  The Guild Master welcomed such recklessness. It meant that Peregrine’s comrades were growing more desperate. “Dispatch a team of Worked Enforcers to the hold,” he sent to his security chief. “Instruct them to seize the grappling ship and dislodge it.”

  “Aye, sir,” the chief sent back.

  Malachi nodded his approval. Allowing time for the automatons to dispose of a ragged pirate gang, he estimated that the diversion had gained the Shibboleth about five minutes.

  “The Enforcers are aboard the enemy vessel,” the chief reported a short time later.

  A pang of curiosity struck the Master. “What is the hauler’s registry?” he asked.

  “She’s the Sunspot out of Temil. Her registration's expired, but the captain filed an extension at Aegiar. It's still good for two weeks.”

  Typical, thought Malachi. The Sunspot's captain would be a barely licensed scofflaw who avoided trouble by bribing his way through lax customs posts. Still, such men always possessed a sort of cowardly wisdom. Peregrine must have spent the last of his ill-gotten funds convincing smugglers to attack a Guild ship. “How close are our reinforcements?” Malachi asked.

  “The Mercantile and the Ethnarch report an ETA of ten minutes.”

  Malachi cupped his chin in his hand. The two corvettes he'd requested were responding with less than optimal speed, betraying their captains' lack of regard for the mission. He knew that some of his Brothers deemed pursuing the Gen a hollow gesture. Peregrine's demise was symbolic. That much Malachi admitted. But it was a necessary symbol asserting the triumph of reason and order over superstitious chaos.

  “Update me on the boarding party's progress,” the Master told the comm officer.

  There was no reply.

  Malachi turned to face the comm station. “Pay attention,” he said. “The heat of battle is no time for…” his voice trailed off when he saw that the post was unmanned.

  Malachi asked if anyone had seen the communications officer leave. No one had. He ordered the man to be reached via sending. There was no response.

  A sudden realization invaded the Master’s mind. He paused to count the bridge crew and came up with four missing. Then he saw the shadows.

  The standard lighting configuration for all Guild ships used direct illumination from multiple angles, bathing the entire bridge in harsh white light that banished any shade. Yet as Malachi looked from the Wheel, he saw more than a dozen shadows pooling in the corners. “Clear the bridge,” he said, trying and failing to keep his voice calm.

  Nakvin hid her relief at her friends’ return to the Shibboleth by greeting them with a crestfallen frown. “And here I thought this old barge was finally mine,” she said.

  Deim pointed at the lady Steersman’s disarrayed hair. “Looks like someone threw you in a bag and shook you,” he said.

  “Sit down,” Nakvin told Deim in a soft voice empty of mercy. Her glare followed his retreat across the bridge.

  Jaren approached the Wheel. “How long until Malachi closes with us?”

  Nakvin regained her composure. “Probably never,” she said. “They came to a stop when the other ship grappled them.”

  Jaren’s eyes showed more white than green. “What other ship?” he asked.

  “A hauler. Old one, too. It's got our Guild Master by the ass.”

  Jaren bared his teeth in a lupine grin. “The best cure for an itch you can’t reach is to scratch somewhere else,” he said. “Let's give Malachi some relief.”

  Malachi raced through the courier’s darkened halls. The cries of his men assailed him from every direction, but he kept running for the hold. He could have stayed to help fend off the shadows that moved and whispered and struck when men’s backs were turned, but all would be in vain unless he dislodged the plague ship.

  Malachi nearly forgot to activate his robe’s aura before entering the airless hold. He prepared for the worst but met no opposition. Wasting no time, he charged into the boarding tube’s rusted maw.

  The Master was only mildly surprised to find no one aboard the ancient hauler. Certain that Peregrine would seize the chance to attack, he made for the bridge with all haste and found the hatch crudely cut from i
ts frame. The Enforcers made it this far at least, he thought.

  The wheelhouse was pitch black and cold as winter. Malachi fashioned a light and recoiled at what he saw. A figure in a frayed grey cloak sat cross-legged atop the Wheel. All three Enforcers lay sprawled before the dais like prostrate supplicants; their heads split in two.

  The cloaked steersman raised his head. The glow of Malachi’s lesser Working pierced the shadows of his hood, revealing not a human face; but an expressionless, bone-white mask.

  Malachi excelled at recognizing deviations from the Guild’s worldview. He began the motions of the Compass before his mind registered the anomaly, but his wits caught up in time to increase the Working’s potency threefold. Though any steersman would have discerned the Master’s lethal designs, the thing on the Wheel remained still.

  A jet of fire that made a salamander's flame seem a spring breeze roared from Malachi’s hands. The Enforcers’ heads melted to glowing slag, and their supposedly heat-proof skin shriveled and flaked. The figure on the Wheel remained unchanged, as though rejected by the fire’s purity. The black eyeholes of his mask regarded the Master impassively.

  In Malachi's reckoning, his foe had graduated from misfit anomaly to brain-torturing paradox. No Guild doctrine could exhaust the aberration he’d witnessed. “What is this thing?” he asked the surrounding darkness, his voice trembling for the first time since adolescence.

  If the dead calm at the eye of a storm had a voice, it spoke then. “Tell me,” the abomination mocked. “Do five generations suffice for the Guild to forget their handiwork?”