by Gary Gibson
At about this point, it occurred to Corso that finding himself a better hiding place might be a pretty good idea.
He’d been scrunched down next to what passed for bushes in the local ecology, just a little way downhill from the auditorium. From here he could see Hua, Briggs and half a dozen troopers hunkered down next to a growth with wide-splayed roots and thousands of wiry, drooping branches.
As he watched, the troopers were returning fire, aiming for the Emissary wielding the pulse-cannon. The ground exploded next to the creature and Corso realized it must have turned its protective shielding off in order to use the cannon. The Emissary stumbled, caught off-guard, then more explosions and shots quickly followed. The alien collapsed on its side, trumpeting angrily.
The remaining two Emissaries charged down the hill towards where Hua and the rest were hiding. Corso stood up and ran like hell, crashing through the dense undergrowth, stumbling and picking himself up again and running until something dropped towards him from above. He cried out and threw his fists about wildly, as something slammed into him and he slipped on the damp ground.
Scrambling towards the relative shelter of a massive tree-trunk, he turned round to see it was Honeydew, and one of the Bandati’s wings had been badly burned.
‘Be quiet,’ Honeydew hissed.
The ground underfoot trembled as an Emissary stamped past them just on the other side of the tree. A few moments later they heard sporadic shouts and screams, interspersed with further gunfire and explosions.
‘You have to get us out of here,’ Corso insisted, grabbing the injured Bandati’s shoulder. ‘We sure as hell can’t stick around. This is turning into a massacre.’
‘There is nowhere to go,’ Honeydew replied. ‘The Emissaries clearly intend to take the derelict from us by force. There is fighting all across the station.’
Corso raised himself slightly and looked around, wishing he had some kind of a weapon, even just to make himself feel less naked and defenceless.
‘Then getting the fuck off this station would be a good thing, don’t you think?’
Honeydew’s wings twitched. ‘Where would we go?’
‘Look, the Shoal are on their way, and so is Dakota. That’s probably why the Emissaries started killing everyone on sight. They want to grab the derelict and blow this station apart before anyone else gets near it.’ Corso carefully neglected to remind Honeydew that they were almost certainly looking for him as well.
Heavy footsteps sounded somewhere nearby, and they crouched low again, scuttling into the deeper shadows between the roots. Corso listened hard, but he could hear no more voices. Even the sporadic gunfire had ceased, leaving only an unnerving silence.
He lifted himself slightly, wondering if it was safe enough to make a move. He glanced down at Honeydew and realized the alien wasn’t going to be flying anywhere any time soon.
‘I do not like this,’ said Honeydew, ‘scrabbling about on the ground like some animal. It is unsafe here. It is better to be—’ His interpreter let out a burst of static.
‘Up in the air?’ Corso suggested.
‘Yes.’
Corso glanced at Honeydew’s injured wings and wondered if it was in him to kill the alien, assuming that was even possible. Probably not, because the creature was fully trained in the arts of war, and Corso himself was little more than a misplaced academic. He stared at the Bandati, wondering why he didn’t feel more angry at him. He’d been imprisoned, drugged, tortured, and fed to a monster. And yet where anger should be, there was only a hollow, vacant sensation. Perhaps, he considered, I’m in shock.
A few hours before, they had been outright enemies. Now the peculiar exigencies of their situation demanded they become allies. Life, he decided, could be very strange.
‘Tell me one thing,’ he asked Honeydew in a soft whisper. ‘What are they talking about when they say they want to “find God and punish him”?’
‘They are . . .’ More static spat out of Honeydew’s interpreter. ‘I am having difficulty finding an appropriate translation. The closest equivalent is “gnostics”. They believe the creatures behind the Magi caches are demiurges whose existence prevents the true God from entering this universe. They wish to find the entities that created those caches in order to kill them.’
Corso couldn’t hide his confusion. ‘But if it wasn’t for the same caches, they wouldn’t have their present technology.’
‘My briefing was far from complete, Lucas. If you need an expert opinion, you could always try asking one of them for clarification.’
Corso ignored this jibe. ‘We need to find a way back to that shuttle where the rest of your people are and get out of here. Are you ready to move?’
‘No. My troops reported coming under intensive fire shortly after returning to the shaft, and I have since lost contact with them.’
Corso sank back and thought hard. ‘Wait a minute. You said you were intending to hand the Piri Reis over to the Emissaries. Do they have it yet?’
‘They do. It is my understanding it was brought here.’
Corso realized that his limited chances of being able to find his own way off the station constituted another good reason to stick by the Bandati. ‘But if you know where it is, or have any idea where we might find it, there’s a chance we could use it to get ourselves out of here.’
‘You will recall it was severely damaged during your escape from Nova Arctis.’
‘It’s still better than nothing.’ Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
Corso crawled on all fours out from between the dense roots, and listened intently. There was no sign of life.
He stood up cautiously. Still nothing moved.
Maybe the Emissaries had moved on from this section of the ring.
Honeydew struggled upright behind him. Hiding between the roots of a tree clearly wasn’t a comfortable situation for a creature with such large wings dwarfing the rest of his body. Corso moved a little further downhill to where the gradient suddenly steepened, taking each step with infinite care. Still nothing moved, but he could see where the dense mat of reddish-green growth underfoot had been flattened by passing Emissaries.
He heard something behind him, and turned to see Honeydew suddenly shoot upwards on an erratic course, his injured wing fluttering spastically. The Bandati had barely got more than a few metres off the ground before something plucked him out of mid-air.
An Emissary lumbered into view. How the hell, Corso wondered, did it manage to move so quietly?
He stood, frozen, too shocked to move, as the Emissary came crashing up towards him, Honeydew wrapped up in its trunk-tentacles. He watched as the Emissary raised Honeydew high in the air, then smashed him down against the trunk of the tree they’d been hiding under.
Instinct finally kicked in and Corso turned to flee, only to find himself staring up and into the wide, angry eyes of yet another Emissary.
The scout-ship carrying Dakota and Days of Wine and Roses came in hard and fast through the middle of a major battle taking place around the station’s hub. They were targeted a half-dozen times on their final approach, but each time Dakota managed to persuade the enemy’s targeting systems that the scout-ship was a friendly target. The station meanwhile rushed towards them with alarming speed.
‘Reports from Immortal Light detachments say the Emissaries have taken control of most of the docking facilities,’ Roses warned her.
Dakota nodded absent-mindedly, her thoughts literally a world away. ‘I know.’
She’d been studying the Emissaries’ movements through the station’s own security network. They were fearsome-looking things, and she recalled the look of horror on Corso’s face when she’d even mentioned them during their last conversation.
She was annoyed to realize how she missed him. Or perhaps he was nothing more than her one remaining anchor to a life before Nova Arctis.
As well as up close to the station, there were several protracted battles now raging between Shoal and Emi
ssary forces throughout Ocean’s Deep. A fleet bearing the distinctive markings of the Darkening Skies Hive had emerged from the Shoal coreship and was now engaging vessels belonging to Immortal Light. But at the same time – and here it became particularly confusing – the Emissaries had started firing on the fleets of both Bandati Hives, as well as on the Shoal.
Consequently, the beleaguered Immortal Light fleet found itself under attack from all sides, and it was clear they were being wiped out.
Roses turned to her. ‘This close, we’re in severe danger of—’
‘Being targeted again,’ Dakota muttered. ‘I know, I know. I’m dealing with it, all right?’
‘Perhaps—’
‘No,’ she said, cutting him off, wishing he would stay quiet. ‘I can . . .’
She couldn’t find words to explain the turbulence inside her head. She shook it irritably and focused on dealing with the seemingly endless array of enemy systems now attempting to shoot them out of the skies. Meanwhile, she learned that the Emissaries were storming through the colony’s several rings, killing everyone and everything they came across, in a chaotic hunt for the derelict.
The Godkiller’s core stacks were still proving frustratingly opaque, even to the derelict’s mind, but judging by the less secure data they were able to leach out of it, the Emissaries had a distinctly esoteric reason for wanting the derelict. She had already learned, too, that their correct designation was Emissaries of God.
‘I’m going to have to use the hub’s trace-lock signal,’ Dakota warned Roses, ‘or we’re not going to be able to get inside. That’s going to make us vulnerable for a couple of seconds.’ Now their main deceleration was done with, she handed partial control of the scout-ship over to the hub’s computers. ‘So you’d better hang on.’
A fresh slew of missiles flashed towards them, fired from Emissary assault ships that had latched on to the hub’s exterior and punched their way through the hull. She reached out through her implants and managed to shut down the targeting systems in most of them. The majority went sailing off course, but a few shot past the scout-ship and hit the hub itself, tearing chunks out of the hull and sending clouds of crystallized atmosphere spilling out into the vacuum beyond. A few detonated close enough to the scout-ship to send life-support and hull-integrity alarms into a spiralling panic.
They were now vectoring in towards the station at critical speeds. Too slow and they’d be an easy target, too fast and they might overshoot, or even kill themselves crashing straight into the hull.
Beams of superheated plasma lashed out towards them as they dropped towards one of the few remaining bays not yet controlled by the Emissaries. One of those high-energy beams slammed into the hull of the scout-ship, whereupon one-third of the navigational systems failed permanently, while over eighty per cent of the external sensors and transceiver relays were burned away by the incandescent heat.
They were flying blind now, and all Dakota could do was watch helplessly through the station’s own monitoring systems as they hurtled through the open bay doors. A moment later something hard slammed into her, and her thoughts were swallowed up in blackness.
On reflection, Corso came to consider it a small mercy he had been knocked unconscious immediately following Honeydew’s death.
When he finally came to, it was to the sound of panicked breathing. He soon discovered he was in the company of not only Sal but two Consortium troopers: an abrasive individual called Henry Schlosser and a woman by the name of Jennifer Dantec. They had all been thrown unceremoniously into the back of a field-assisted aircraft, and when they eventually emerged from its hold they found they were a long way from where they’d started.
They disembarked into a launch bay containing a hangar-like building over to one side. To Corso’s untrained eye, this looked like it might once have functioned as a machine-shop. Otherwise, the dust-laden hulks of abandoned vehicles and other less identifiable machinery sat abandoned in one corner, while a series of rusted metal tanks were mounted in brackets against a rear wall.
Beyond the hangar, a variety of small craft were suspended from ceiling clamps, all looking in serious disrepair. Estimating the length of time they’d just spent in the aircraft, he assumed they’d been carried back up one of the spoke-shafts and into the station hub itself.
After the Emissaries pushed them inside the hangar, Corso and the others had instinctively sought out the dark, relatively inaccessible spaces between the wall-mounted tanks, aware that a machine about six metres in length, mounted on six thickset double-jointed legs, was standing guard at the hangar’s open entrance. The Emissaries meanwhile departed, although it seemed obvious they would return.
Which meant that if they were going to devise a way to escape, their time was strictly limited.
The guard had a set of manipulating arms at its front end and, although there was nothing that might reasonably be called a head, there was a pair of sensors in about the right position to qualify as eyes. Its body close to the ground, it occurred to Corso that it resembled some huge and brutish dog, and after that he found it difficult to think of it as anything else.
But that wasn’t the worst part of their present predicament, for the very real possibility of escape lay tantalizingly, cruelly close.
The Piri Reis sat in view barely a few dozen metres beyond the hangar entrance, and Corso almost wept with joy at the sight of it. If he could just find some way past the guard-machine, he could try and communicate with Dakota.
In the end an idea came to him, and he began trying hard to persuade Schlosser and the rest that it might work, as they crouched there between the rusted tanks. His plan was, after all, simplicity itself.
He and Schlosser would move towards one side of the hangar entrance in order to draw the guard-machine’s attention. Sal and Dantec, meanwhile, would feint towards the entrance’s opposite side and draw it back towards them. Then – and here, Corso knew, was the most crucial, most vulnerable part – he and Schlosser would make a break towards the Piri Reis.
To his surprise, they agreed fairly rapidly.
Corso, accompanied by Schlosser, crept towards the left side of the hangar entrance. As Corso had hoped, the guard-machine swivelled its eye-sensors towards them, and soon began to move closer. Schlosser turned to give a signal, whereupon Dantec and Sal crept over to the right side of the entrance.
After hesitating just a moment, the machine twisted around with astonishing speed and snatched Dantec up in its forward manipulators. It threw her towards the rear of the hangar, where she hit the side of a tank with a dull clang before slumping, lifeless, to the deck. Her head was twisted at a sickening angle, and it was clear she’d been killed at once.
Perhaps, Corso thought, he should have taken this opportunity to run over to the Piri Reis; but the savage brutality with which the machine reacted had triggered a deeper, animal response, so instead he had run for the nearest place of safety – one of the darkened and hopefully inaccessible spaces between the tanks.
Rather than following them, the six-legged machine simply returned to its post, as implacably watchful as ever.
After a while, they slipped over to Dantec’s limp body and dragged it into the shadows. Something in Schlosser’s reaction meanwhile caused Corso to suspect that he and Dantec had been more than just good friends. The trooper became uncommunicative, staring towards the Piri Reis with a dead-eyed expression as he slouched against a wall.
At least this time Sal had the good sense not to try and start a conversation with either of them.
Corso, too, found himself staring towards Dakota’s ship, and after a while another idea came to him. He glanced at the two other men crouching in the dusty half-light next to him, their expressions grim and unhappy, and considered what they might say if he told them what he had in mind.
Fuck it, he thought. He was actually worried that they might think he’d genuinely lost his mind. But they hadn’t seen the things he’d seen.
He stood up w
ithout warning, walking as close to the hangar’s entrance as he dared. He could feel the other two’s eyes on his back, but neither said a word or called out to him.
The guard-machine responded predictably by turning sharply towards him, following his progress with its tiny unblinking sensors. It took a half-step towards Corso, in a motion so uncannily animalistic that he found himself wondering if it might be part-biological: a cyborg of some kind.
Corso stopped dead, and slowly raised his hands to either side of his mouth.
‘Dakota!’ he yelled towards the Piri Reis. ‘Dakota! Can you hear me?’
‘Lucas, are you fucking insane?’ Sal finally called from inside the hangar.
Corso simply ignored him. Instead he glanced towards the machine, which stood there as if frozen. He found the courage to try once more. ‘Dakota!’ he screamed. ‘It’s Lucas! For God’s sake, help me!’
The guard-machine suddenly reared up, the front part of its body towering over him. At the same time it emitted a deafening, stuttering howl like a siren. It was clearly warning him not to move any further away from the hangar.
Corso took the hint and fled back to the relative safety by the tanks.
‘What the hell were you doing there?’ Sal demanded.
‘I don’t want to hear from you, Sal.’
‘Look, if this is because—’
‘I said, shut the fuck up.’
Sal’s face reddened, then he closed his mouth and looked angrily away.
Schlosser regarded Corso with a new degree of respect. ‘Think anybody’ll hear us?’ he asked drily.
‘Maybe – if the ship’s scanning monitors are still active.’ Corso glanced back towards the guard-machine, which had once again resumed its post near the entrance. ‘Just maybe.’
Twenty-six
Dakota’s filmsuit had activated at the very last second, swallowing her like a black tide. Now she watched as it drained back into her skin once more.