by Martin Dukes
“The circle shall be complete!” he cried, and the sword swept down in a gleaming arc.
“There’s something going on,” said Henry pressing his ear to the door.
“What can you hear?” demanded Will.
“Shouting,” said Henry, glancing up but otherwise keeping his head exactly where it was. “And shots. Two. There’s another. It sounds like it’s all kicking off down at the harbour.”
“What do you reckon?” asked Will turning to Rakesh.
Rakesh sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “I fear the Sultan is here and that Garek’s men are under attack. His vessel is a very distinctive one. It would not be hard to find it.”
It was night now and they had been held in their makeshift prison for what might have been twelve hours or so. A little light filtered in under the door from the lamp-lit space beyond, where their guards stood duty, but essentially it was pitch dark, the musty smell of grain in their nostrils.
“Well, I don’t suppose it’ll take long before the Sultan finds his way up here,” said Zoroaster.
“We’ve got to get out of here then,” said Kelly urgently. “He’s going to kill us if he catches us. He is, isn’t he?”
“Indeed. But what can we do?” asked Jemail. “The door is a sturdy one. The guards have firearms. We are helpless.”
“We’ve got to get out and find where they’ve taken Alex,” said Kelly, gripping Henry’s arm urgently. “You know what they want him for.”
“I know,” said Henry thinking furiously, running his fingers along the rough wooden surface of the back of the door as though he thought he might find some weakness in it, some prominence he might grasp to wrench it suddenly open.
“Give me the angel stones,” said Rakesh.
“Huh?” Henry grunted as he stood back from the door.
“The angel stones–the ones you showed us earlier. Give them to me.”
With a shrug, Henry groped in his pocket and passed the pebbles across to Rakesh.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Taking off my boot,” said Rakesh simply. “Tanya must affect to be ill. Everyone else, gather around her as though anxious for her health. Do it now.”
“What?” said Kelly.
“Just do it!” barked Rakesh. “Jemail must convince them that Tanya requires urgent medical assistance. Henry, Jemail, help me beat on this door.”
The three of them beat frantically on the door, shouting and bawling for help until they heard the bolt slide across and the door was flung open. The two guards were silhouetted against the yellow light of the corridor beyond, guns levelled at their prisoners. The light picked out Tanya, lying on her side in the middle of the cell, eyes closed and mouth hanging slackly open. Zoroaster, Amjad, Kelly and Will were hunched over her.
“She’s collapsed,” said Kelly, blinking in the sudden light. “You’ve got to do something.”
“I fear she has had a seizure,” added Zoroaster reaching for her pulse.
“You must do something,” said Jemail grimly to the guards. “Your master will punish you if she dies.”
“Bring the lamp,” said the taller of the two guards. He gestured with his gun. “You others, step right back. Right to the back wall where I can see you– and no funny business.”
Except for Rakesh, who was concealed behind the door, the others drew back, leaving Tanya’s small figure alone, motionless, on the cell floor. She made a faint whimper, twitching her hand. The guard approached cautiously, stooping to examine her but keeping the gun held ready. The second guard came in with the lamp in one hand, his own weapon hunched under his other arm. He passed over the threshold and Rakesh struck, fast as a snake. There was a rapid movement, a whirl of something black against the light and a sickening crack as whatever it was made violent contact with the back of the guard’s head. Guard and lamp toppled to the floor.
“Get him,” roared Rakesh.
There was a thunderous, shocking report as the stooping guard discharged his rifle. Too late. The others were upon him, pushing him down, grabbing for arms and legs and holding him firmly to the floor as he cursed and writhed. The lamp had flickered but remained alight. Now Zoroaster held it aloft.
“Lie still or I will cut your throat,” said Amjad grimly, pressing the guard’s own knife cold against his flesh. The guard abruptly ceased struggling, his eyes wide with terror.
“Good. Now we understand each other,” added Amjad.
“Is everyone okay?” asked Kelly, panting and glancing around anxiously from face to face.
Everyone nodded. Rakesh came forward into the pool of light, having first checked the other guard, who lay prone next to the door.
“He won’t be troubling us again,” he said, swinging a sock with a meaningful bulge at the toe end.
“Cool,” said Henry, looking up as Rakesh tipped out the superior technology of the angels into his palm. “So that’s how they work.”
“Now,” said Rakesh, crouching down over the recumbent guard. “You’ll be wanting to talk to us, unless you wish to share your comrade’s fate. Where have they taken our friend?”
“I don’t know. They took him to Garek’s office but I ain’t seen him since. Nor Garek,” he added. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on. Karil said they disappeared into thin air. That’s what he were told. He were talking to Shirman. Some kind of funny business going on.”
His captors regarded each other seriously. There were a couple of rifle shots from outside, followed almost immediately by a scream. The sound was closer now.
“Take us to this office,” said Jemail picking up the rifle. “Come on, quickly now. There’s no time to lose. Rakesh, get the other gun. Amjad, Henry–see what else there is.”
The warehouse complex appeared to be deserted. The remainder of Garek’s crew were presumably fully occupied in trying to defend their ship, a few hundred yards away in the little harbour. This was not the first thing that came to the escapees’ attention, however, as they hurried out into the courtyard between the storage buildings. Will, glancing momentarily aside, charged straight into Jemail’s back as he stood transfixed, gazing up into the night sky. For a long moment they all stood motionless, even the guard with the knife still pressed by Amjad against his throat.
“Dear Lord!” breathed Kelly.
The dense clouds that covered the heavens from side to side had moved aside to reveal two moons perfectly superimposed, one in front of the other. The smaller was darker, redder so that the larger of the two, Artemis, appeared as a shining white ring in the black heavens.
“Behold,” said Zoroaster dramatically. “What no human being has witnessed for three hundred and thirty-seven years. Actaeon rides before Artemis.”
It was a vision as beautiful as it was alien. As they watched, a few silver strands of cloud drifted in front of it. Each of the watchers cast a long moon shadow on the courtyard behind them.
“Come on,” said Henry at length. “It’s real pretty but we haven’t got time for this.”
It was as though a spell was broken. The party surged forwards once more, hurrying up a flight of wooden steps that led to a row of offices at the top end of the complex. The guard led them to the last office, larger than the others and unique in having all of its windows intact. The door was unlocked. Inside, everything was exactly as Shirman had left it. The chairs stood in the centre of the room, their straps, buckles and wires dangling loosely. The grey rectangular box remained in the corner, the occasional light still winking on its surface, wires snaking across the floor towards the chairs.
“This is it,” said the guard glancing around. “Karil seen ‘em in ‘ere. Said three went in an’ only one came out; that bein’ the First Lieutenant, Shirman,” he added, keeping a wary eye on Amjad’s hand, which still held the knife dangerously close to his throat. “Somethin’ not right about the Cap’n, Shirman and them, ain’t there? I always said so. Look at all this stuff.”
“It’s angel tech stuff,” sa
id Kelly, picking up one of the skull caps that hung from the larger of the two chairs.
“But where’s Alex gone?” asked Tanya, pushing her way through into the room.
“Nowhere you can follow,” came a weak voice from the corridor outside.
Everyone swung round in alarm as Shirman shuffled in amongst them, his hand pressed to his side from which blood leaked profusely, leaving a dripping trail as he walked. He was carrying a sword, but this hung limply in his hand rather than representing any obvious threat.
“You devil,” spat Jemail rounding on him. “What have you done with him?”
“Mission accomplished,” said Shirman grimacing with pain. He let the sword fall with a clatter to the floor. “He’s gone now, translated to Elysium. Garek took him. Job done.”
“You’ve got to send us after him,” said Kelly, her cheeks flushing with rage. “You know what they’re going to do to him.”
“I do,” said Shirman, lifting a bloodied hand cautiously to inspect the gaping wound under his bottom rib. “And I rejoice in it. I just need to close down this equipment… leave no trace. There was only one charge. Just one shot to get him home. Like a battery, see, and now it’s dead. No way you can go, missy. We’re all stuck here now.” He glanced out of the window. “Things should be winding up soon anyway, if Garek’s got a handle on it.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Henry, standing in his path as Shirman made to continue into the room, leaning on the table for support.
Shirman laughed, turning ashen-faced to regard Henry and swaying unsteadily on his feet.
“If you’re pal’s skull’s what we think it is, the whole universe is going to end sometime soon,” he said.
“Huh!” Henry stared at him. “You’re crazy!”
“You might want to get out of here,” said Shirman with a dismissive snort, pushing past him. He reached for the grey rectangular block, moved one hand across the top surface and the winking lights were immediately extinguished. “There,” he said, slumping back in one of the chairs. “Dead as a doornail… No tracer’s going to pick that up… Like I say… Get moving... The Sultan and half his army’s on the way up here… Be here in a few minutes… Go…” He made a vague wave with his hand, took a deep, rasping breath and his head lolled forward on his chest. His other hand dropped lifeless at his side.
“Pegged it,” said Henry with a sniff. “Come on, you heard him. Let’s get out of here.”
“But what about Alex?” demanded Kelly.
“We can’t do anything for him here,” said Will. “Henry’s right.”
“But where shall we go?” asked Jemail. “We cannot go to the harbour, as the Sultan is there.”
“Trust me,” said Will glancing around earnestly. “We need to get a long, long way from here in a big hurry. Bad stuff is going to happen real soon, isn’t it Zoroaster?”
“Indeed,” said Zoroaster, crossing to look out of the window towards where fires were now burning down by the harbour. There was still a crackle of gunfire as Garek’s crew continued to resist. “A worm wind is coming and the worm storm will consume all of this land in fire and destruction.” He looked back at the others, his face eerily lit by the eclipsing moons. “We may have only a few hours.”
“But what can we do?” asked Henry. “That’s not enough time.”
A grim silence settled momentarily in the room until Will turned suddenly to Zoroaster, eyes blazing, even as his spectacles glinted with the dread eclipse.
“How far are we from Tattash?” he demanded.
“I suppose Tattash is inland to the west of here,” said Zoroaster. “Ten to fifteen miles, I should think. Why?”
“Because we’ve got to get that tower,” said Will. “You know, the one I was telling everyone about–the tower of Bilimwezi, the Tower of Two Moons. It’s our only chance.”
“He’s right,” said Zoroaster after a moment, running a hand through his wild hair.
“Then what are we waiting for?” said Rakesh. He picked up Shirman’s sword and tossed it to Henry. “Here, you may have need of this.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alex had occasionally considered what death would be like. He had wondered whether, as people said, the events of his life would play themselves out before his mind’s eye in his life’s last moment. What would be the last image, the last thought to be held fleetingly within that frame? He had imagined that such a distinction might be held by family or friends; his mother perhaps… or Kelly. What he wasn’t prepared for was that an image of Malcolm would spring suddenly to mind, a vision of shocking clarity in the dark mental recesses he was groping his way through. Even as his heart muscle contracted one last time and the blood surged along his arteries, even as his lungs drew in one last rasping gasp of air, even as his helpless body recoiled and the black sword plunged hungrily towards his naked throat, the dark veil parted.
There was a sickening lurch, a sensation of nausea that clutched at his stomach, one of blind panic and a sensation of massive compression as though he had squeezed through the tiniest of gaps. The last gulp of air in his lungs was suddenly too much and he exhaled. His eyes sprang open. His mind reeled, struggling to bring within its understanding the reality that confronted it. There was no pain. There was no sword. There was silence. He was not dead; not if the urgent pulse at his temples and the thudding beat in his chest was any guide. He took a deep breath, held it in and then let it out slowly.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” he repeated like a mantra.
He was lying on his back, but the cold hardness of stone had been replaced by what felt like carpet. The glare of the oculus had been replaced by darkness, but a darkness that was not complete, a darkness that began to yield to vision as his eyes adjusted. Above him was a dangling lampshade. A cautious turn of his head – still firmly attached – to the left revealed a chest of drawers, a pair of slippers and an overflowing laundry basket. To the right was a bed, a bedside cupboard and a duvet slipping to the floor. He sat up. There was a sleepy groan and the sound of fingers groping in the dark. A click and the light came on. Alex screwed up his eyes, momentarily dazzled but not before recognition dawned.
“Malcolm!” he gasped.
“Alex!” gasped Malcolm simultaneously, jerking upright in bed.
It was hard to say who was most surprised. For a long while they simply stared at each other, Malcolm bolt upright in bed, hair awry and baggy purple T-shirt contrasting splendidly with the pallor of his skin, Alex sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor.
Malcolm recovered first, if saying “What the hell?” could be described as recovery.
“Hi,” said Alex weakly, and then bit his lip, fighting to contain the hot tears that suddenly welled in his eyes. He wiped some of them away with the sleeve of a black robe that part of him noticed he was now wearing, a robe embroidered with a pattern of silver skulls.
Malcolm swung his legs out of bed.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked frowning.
Alex gave him a detailed account of recent events, which is to say Alex blurted out a garbled, gasping and disconnected narrative that Malcolm stitched together into something approaching a logical story after a great deal of patient questioning and reiteration.
“Ezekiel!” Malcolm said when Alex mentioned the name of his would-be executioner. “Oh my God. I would have never thought he’d have had it in him, dry old stick that he is. He’s a big noise up in Records, but not exactly one of the really big hitters, if you know what I mean. Oh my God.”
“And that’s another thing. You once told me there were four archangels,” said Alex now feeling aggrieved. “There’s actually loads, aren’t there?”
“Yeah, well,” said Malcolm sheepishly. “That’s the official line. Like it says in the books, you know. That’s what we’re supposed to tell mortals if it comes up. Not that it actually comes up that often.”
“So you were lying to me,” protested Alex. “What else have you been lying to
me about? Seems to me this whole place is one big lie after another. You can’t even tell what’s real and what isn’t.” He glanced around at Malcolm’s bedroom. “I mean, is this a construct? Garek messed me about with what he called a construct. It was like an illusion he made for me, but so real I couldn’t tell. It was just like...” he waved his hands helplessly. “Real, you know? I was just, like, there.”
“Hey!” Malcolm held up a hand. “Hold on in there. You’ve seen what D3D space looks like. Elysium’s pretty much all made up of constructs of one kind or another. The difference is between what is tangible reality and what is illusion. This...” he gestured around them. “This is a c-construct. I made this to resemble as closely as possible my bedroom when I was mortal. It’s real. Check out the duvet. It’s even got the half-torn label, see? That’s how you can tell c-construct. It stands up to close examination because it derives from real sensory impulses. This stuff is what your eyes are really seeing and your finger tips are really feeling. C-construct, because it’s concrete, yeah? Obviously it takes a lot more effort and energy to put together, but it’s real and it lasts. Ultimately it’s lots more convincing. Take a shufty out of the window.”
Alex crossed to the window and drew back the curtains to look out at the rooftops of a few seaside cottages, the sea beyond with a rocky headland. A three-quarter moon was painting a broad silvery path across the calm ocean.
“That’s i-con, I mean i-construct,” explained Malcolm coming up beside him. “It’s basically an illusion based on my recollections and put together out of images saved in my visual cortex. Pretty, isn’t it? But it’s basically Elysium messing with your head. It’s being fed straight into your neural pathways so that your brain thinks your eyes are seeing it. Makes no difference. Same end product.”
“That’s amazing,” said Alex opening his eyes wider. “What if I was to go down there?”
“It’d disappear,” said Malcolm. “You’d find yourself standing on that grey stuff, D3D. I-construct’s an illusion, that’s all, no matter how realistic it looks. I could c-transit–that means turn it concrete–but that would require a whole load of effort and, hey, tomorrow I might feel like walking out into the rain forest.”