The Beauty of Destruction

by Gavin G. Smith

  Mr Hat targeted the incoming ship with lasers then, as it closed, kinetic harpoons. It was returning fire, burning hard to close the distance. Mr Hat moved the Amuser behind the Templar for cover, popping over and around it to fire and then ducking down behind the heavier ship.

  The AG smart munitions bursting out of the cloud cover beneath the Amuser nearly caught him. They must have come in slow and stealthy, only accelerating at the last moment. He fired the rail cannons and lasers defensively as the AG-driven weapons burst into submunitions. The Amuser was caught in multiple explosions, and one or two of the submunitions made it through. His ship juddered and was thrown back from the force of the detonating fusion warheads as light engulfed his ship.

  For a moment the Basilisk II disappeared, then he was taking fire again. The yacht had braked hard and was doing exactly the same thing as the Amuser had been doing, using the Templar for cover. They played hide-and-seek, circling the light cruiser, risking shots when they could, occasionally sending AG smart munitions arcing around the Templar.

  The female automaton reached down just as the Monk started to spasm from the feedback. Counterattack programs and venomous viruses were poisoning the liquidware that ran through her brain. She managed to slash at one of the automaton’s arms with a thermal blade. The blade bit into the machine’s arm and got lodged there.

  The blast door slid shut.

  The Monk smiled at the blank-faced machine. With a thought she triggered the coherent energy field. The automaton let go of her, its fingers forced away from skin by the field. Extruded blades cut through the machine’s legs. It toppled over. The Monk’s neunonics showed her where to put the blade next to permanently destroy the automaton. Then she down-powered the energy field to save what little remaining power there was left in the L-tech device.

  The familiar program had found the backdoor. It had shown Scab. Scab now controlled the Templar, and for once he didn’t mess around, he immediately shared control with the Monk. She became aware of what was happening outside.

  Mr Hat was aware of the Templar’s weapons activating. AG-driven smart munitions sprung from the light cruiser. He turned and ran, firing behind him, heading for the clouds. The Basilisk II kept firing as he fled but didn’t pursue. The AG-driven smart munitions did, however.

  The Monk flicked the energy field on and off. On when she was attacked, off the rest of the time to conserve power and monitor the ship. It was clear that the automatons were here to capture Vic and Scab and presumably her as well, as they could have been a lot more lethal than they had been.

  She put the field up and extruded blades cut into those trying to hold down the still-screaming, writhing Scab.

  He must love this, the Monk thought, smirking behind the field. As soon as his right arm was free he laid into the automatons with the E-javelin in a frenzy.

  The field failed as she tried to free Vic. An automaton’s fist caught her hard enough to powder the bone in her nose and much of her face. The force of the blow picked her up off her feet and sent her flying from the catwalk and into the befouled dolphin pool. Her systems tried to clamp down on the pain as much as possible, but she’d been beaten, shot, and partially eaten by nanites. Physically she just wanted to drop, give up. Instead she was treading water in the disgusting pool, looking for the maintenance ladder.

  Vic burst out from under the pile of automatons that had been trying to hold him down. Scab was there with him, cutting up the still-rotting automatons with the E-javelin. Then everything was quiet and still. She could hear Scab breathing heavily and the water rippling. Vic looked down at her, kneeling on the catwalk.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ he asked.

  They had worked quickly. The Monk had ejected as many AG-driven smart munitions from the Templar as the Basilisk II could carry. Then Scab had set the controls of the stolen Church light cruiser for the heart of the sun. They had considered taking the larger, better-armed ship but they were too few to operate it anything close to optimally, though access to their military grade assemblers would have been useful, as the nano-swarm had eaten most of their gear. Instead it would be the funeral barge for dead Church members, the information forms from the Psycho Bank that had possessed them, and the Cystians who had died aboard the vessel. But not for Benedict/Scab.

  The Monk was sitting on one of the lower steps of the ziggurat, healing slowly as Scab dragged his howling son/younger self past her. The fused personality had been an abomination but so was Scab-senior’s response. The mass killing never seemed to stop, and as much as she would have liked to lay this at Scab’s door, it hadn’t been him who had had Benedict possessed by a Psycho Bank copy of a younger Scab. This, the cover-ups when the Destruction had hit the systems, the fall of the Cathedral. How much was enough, she wondered? She should be appalled. No, she should have snapped a long time ago. How much had the tech really changed her? She felt like her, but surely a normal person couldn’t cope with this. How many times had she been cloned? Was she just a simulacrum now? She felt numb as Scab cut his own son’s heart out on top of the ziggurat and then held it up to show the silent masses of surviving Cystians who watched.

  The Monk held her head in her hands. She felt a metallic claw on her shoulder. She looked up.

  ‘Look,’ Vic said. Flowers were growing out of the smart matter. They were sprouting out of the ziggurat and the walkway. She didn’t want to look up at Scab. See his angry face confused at this moment of beauty.

  ‘C’mon,’ she said to Vic and stood up. She pushed her way through the Cystians, who ignored them. Towards where the Basilisk II was hovering, the cargo bay’s ramp touching the flowering smart matter catwalk. Talia had flown them here but she had remained inside the Basilisk II’s smart matter, and had ignored Beth’s attempts to communicate.

  ‘A bridge has opened at the bridge point,’ Basil, the ship’s AI told them. ‘No ship has come through.’

  It could only mean one thing. An Elite. They hurried onto the ship, glancing behind her to see the Cystians had parted to let Scab pass as he ran towards them.

  The ship was already peeling away from the catwalk as Scab reached the ramp. They had seconds at most. The Basilisk II’s sensor feed made them aware of the coherent energy field umbrella that the Mother was generating to try and hide the bridge opening, and then they were in planetary Red Space.

  The Monk took control of the ship. Her Church experience made her the best Red Space navigator. Sensors and skill-sets only got you so far off the beacon paths. There was still a lot of intuition and experience involved.

  ‘Talia, you need to come out now,’ she said aloud, assuming that the ship would pass the message on.

  The smart matter wall birthed her sister near to where the Monk was standing. Talia looked furious.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Vic asked.

  What now? the Monk thought, uncharitably.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ Talia said venomously, breathing hard. Then she looked at Scab. Even he seemed a little taken aback. ‘In love with the ghost of the ship,’ she said. The Monk frowned. Talia turned back to look at her. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Talia demanded.

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ Vic asked, looking between the two sisters.

  This didn’t make sense. There was no way she could know. There was no interface. Then she turned to look at Scab. He was smiling. That was when Talia went for her sister with her nails.

  Alexia wept as the smart matter grew around her inside the ziggurat, engulfing her as she diffused her consciousness throughout the Cage around the dying world.

  The Innocent walked among the flowers above the clouds and looked at the animals. They seemed to regard him as one of their own.

  28

  Ancient Britain

  ‘That’s not for the faint hearted.’ Bladud had echoed his wife when Tangwen told him of the plan. He had always been careful in battle. He did not lack courage but he wished to triumph, and to take as many of his people back to their families as po
ssible. He believed it was how you remained strong, though others felt that strength came from glory. It was surprising how often the glorious were defeated by the cautious. Tangwen’s plan did not allow for much in the way of caution. Still, they would be able to look their gods in the eyes when they met them in the Underworld.

  As they trudged through the snow towards the mouth of the cave, steam already rising from the warband’s sweaty masses, Bladud was aware of the activity in the fort above and behind them. They could not use the horses to fight uphill so they advanced on the cave mouth, the entrance to the Underworld, on foot, and in a strange formation. It was strange because they had a shield wall at the front of the formation and another at the back. They were purposefully arranging for themselves to be trapped between two armies. It was beyond moonstruck.

  The shield walls were made up of all the tribes, but the front wall mainly consisted of the Trinovantes, led by Clust. Anharad was among them, armoured and armed, and against her better judgement Mabon, her twelve-year-old grandson, was with them as well. The shield walls consisted of trained and, for the most part, experienced warriors. They carried their casting spears and their swords, but not their longspears. Behind them were the spear-carriers, the most experienced in the second rank just behind the shield wall. Their job was to fight over the warriors’ shields, though many of the spear-carriers also had slings. In the middle of the two opposite facing forces were more warriors from a mixture of the tribes. They carried longspears but no shields. The warriors with the longspears were surrounded by bow-carrying gwyllion.

  Guidgen was among the gwyllion, which Bladud was grateful for. He actually liked the old dryw. He just wished gwyllion didn’t have to stand in the way all the time. He would have preferred to have Britha close by him because he didn’t trust her further than he could spit a stone. He was pretty sure that Britha wouldn’t know honour if she tripped over it. He had not liked what had happened on Ynys Dywyll. He had not liked how quickly Moren had capitalised on Nils’ death. He did not like that Madawg had not been in his pallet asleep when it had happened. But as far as he was concerned Britha had shown her guilt when she had run. After all, she had worked for the enemy, slept with the enemy, she carried Bress’s child in her belly, and by all accounts had changed sides more than once. There was just one small nagging doubt about Nils’ death. Bladud could not quite shake the feeling that he believed Moren’s version of events because he wanted to, because it was convenient.

  Germelqart was with Guidgen. Bladud could not make out the Carthaginian. It was understandable that he was always quiet. He was so far from home, and surrounded by warriors and the inevitable chaos that accompanied them, but the foreigner had, if anything, become even more withdrawn of late. Bladud would have liked to have the Red Chalice out of the Carthaginian’s hands and ideally back up in the north, in his home. They could not risk Germelqart and the chalice falling into the hands of the Lochlannach, so they were both in the centre of the warband. If they were taken it was too late anyway. Still, at least Germelqart had allowed those who had wished to drink of the chalice to do so, though only after Guidgen had delivered dire warnings about the consequences of such powerful magic. Surprisingly few warriors had volunteered. The Witch King could understand why. He had felt the panic when the molten metal had forced itself down his throat, the agonising burning, and then healing. He had felt fire course through his body. He could not remember ever feeling like this, even in his prime: he was stronger, faster, more aware. Part of him knew this was cheating, you should work for this, but he felt exhilarated, eager for the battle. His skin was feverish like the riasterthae frenzy he had heard stories of, though those stories always told of a golden age of warriors that none living seemed to be able to remember.

  Most of the Brigante had followed his example, though Garim hadn’t. He liked the man well enough, but he was no Nerthach. He missed the big warrior, and cursed him for the stupidity of attacking Crom Dhubh by himself. The fact that the majority of the Brigante had drunk from the chalice would see them well after the battle, if any of them survived Tangwen’s plan. He suspected she had come up with it while chewing on certain mushrooms.

  Guidgen’s warnings had scared most of the other warriors off drinking from the chalice. That and the stories of what the weapons had done. None of the Pecht had drunk of it, nor the gwyllion. This would also work in the Brigante’s favour after the battle. He was suspicious of all the warnings, but he was a learned man, a strong man, favoured by the gods, or else he would not have accomplished so much, regardless of what Nils may have said.

  Nils. He may not have liked the man. The arch dryw had been unable to see beyond his ancient laws. He did not know enough of the lands beyond his own cold, wet, beautiful island but he hadn’t deserved his end.

  Bladud glanced over at Ysgawyn and Gwynn of the Corpse People. The trial by combat came down to who was the best fighter. It had little to do with innocence or guilt, or the gods. Madawg had been a cagey fighter, unpleasant, but a warrior nonetheless. Bladud could not believe that he would have killed the arch dryw, though if he had, he had paid the price. Like most of the Brigante, Gwynn and Ysgawyn had drunk of the chalice as well. They may have been among Bladud’s apparently staunchest allies, but sharing the power of the chalice with them made the Witch King uneasy. Tangwen had not looked pleased either, but she had said nothing.

  Bladud still had the sword infused with the power of the chalice from the battle with the spawn of Andraste at the gwyllion’s forest fort. Up until the morn of the battle it had lived in a skin that he had sewn up and inscribed with symbols of binding written in wolf’s blood. A circle of salt had surrounded the skin. Now the sword was back in his hand whispering tales of gore to him again. As he saw the neat rows of Lochlannach moving towards them behind their shields, their own carnyx sounding their disquieting, ululating rasp, the sword started to shake with eagerness in his hand.

  Like the Witch King, many of his warriors still had their weapons from fighting the spawn of Andraste. Those who did not had dipped their own in the Red Chalice. They were forged anew. The strands of molten metal climbed sword blades, spear and arrow-heads, even sling stones, giving them a red tinge, infusing them with the venom they would need to kill the warriors possessed by demons from Cythrawl.

  Bladud was in the centre of the rear facing shield wall. It was where he expected the worst of the fighting to be. Cautious he might be, but you could not expect warriors to fight for you if you were not prepared to do what they did. With his body burning, and the sword thirsting for flesh, he did not feel cautious now. The Lochlannach moved towards them, still somehow managing to maintain their neat rows despite descending a steep snow-covered hill. Their discipline reminded the Witch King of the warbands of the city states that surrounded the sea on the other side of what the Greeks called the Pillars of Heracles.

  The Brigante were still moving backwards as the Trinovantes warriors at the front of the warband made their way uphill towards the cave mouth. Bladud could hear threats and insults shouted from the front shield wall. Bladud suspected there was little point in engaging in the ritual insulting. The Lochlannach marching towards him certainly didn’t look receptive to name-calling and slights on their sexual proclivities and parentage. If he weren’t so eager for battle their blank expressions would have worried him.

  ‘All of you remember this,’ the Witch King cried. ‘We defeated the children of gods! A god made the weapons we carry in our hands! These are just slaves, they are nothing to those of us who are mighty!’ He was answered with cheering.

  Behind them they heard shouted orders, the sound of taut bowstrings loosed in the cold air, stones and casting spears impacting into the leather-lined oak and magic of the shields borne by the Lochlannach in the cave mouth. Then came the first cries of pain as the Lochlannach in the cave mouth threw their own casting spears.

  ‘Guidgen!’ Bladud shouted. Moments later arrows shot overhead as half of the gwyllion present loosed
. Most of the arrows ended up studding the approaching Lochlannach’s shields but a few hit home. Bladud knew that the red-tipped arrows, imbued with the magics of the chalice, would grow inside the wounds. He saw a Lochlannach get hit in the leg, slow, falter and collapse into the snow, but the rest kept coming. He heard a roar behind him, then the sound of iron on wood, the sound of shields grinding together, the sound of cold metal finding warm flesh, and the sound of pain.

  ‘Slings!’ Bladud shouted. He hated the impractical weapons. The stones hummed just overhead, more than one hitting the helmets of warriors in front. One of the spear-carriers went down. He was passed back towards the centre of the warband, where Guidgen was with the warriors who carried the red spears that the chalice had forged whole.

  Their line had stopped moving. Behind them they could hear the Trinovantes and the Lochlannach in the cave mouth battering each other’s shields with spear and sword. The warriors of the various tribes were screaming at the silent Lochlannach. Bladud knew that some would be caught up in the moment, others overcome by the blood-thirst of their chalice-reforged weapons, others would just be very frightened, and among the war cries would be the howls of the wounded, trapped in the crush.

  Arrows still flew overhead from the gwyllion archers. ‘Spears!’ Bladud shouted.

  The Brigante moved, almost as one, the Iceni warriors with them likewise very disciplined. The other warriors were not so quick off the mark. The casting spears were shadows in the low winter sun as they flew over the snow, for the most part to thud into shields already studded with hungry arrows. The Brigante and Iceni warriors brought their shields up. The returning casting spears drove too deep into the wood of their shields for Bladud’s taste. He heard oak split. There was a scream further down the line as one of his bear-skull-wearing warriors was flung back into the spear-carriers behind him by the force of the impact.