Far from the Light of Heaven

by Tade Thompson

“I’m coming with.”

  “You’re not.”

  “You literally just said I should do what I like. This is what I like.”

  Shell can’t think of what to say so she lets him be. Let him keep up if he can. She feels more affinity for him on finding out about his mother, but she won’t let it distract her from killing Brisbane. As they move aft, Shell sees how dirty the Ragtime has become after the plants and animals and robots lost the battle. Frances breathes realistically, keeping time with the humans until Shell sends him back.

  When they arrive at the breach in the algae reactor, it’s sealed. She whips round at Fin, who shrugs.

  Closer look.

  It’s biological, like hardened spider silk.

  “A creature we missed?” asks Fin.

  “Maybe. I don’t look forward to meeting the spider large enough to do that.”

  “If I may, Captain,” says Ragtime.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Brisbane secreted it. He used the dead body and his own waste as substrate.”

  “Urgh,” says Fin.

  “Eww,” says Shell.

  “Oh, no, it’s quite sterile,” says Ragtime.

  “Later I’ll explain to you why that means nothing,” says Fin. “Shall I shoot it down?”

  “I wouldn’t,” says Ragtime. “There’s something toxic mixed in. Exotics. It’s safer to make a new opening.”

  “Ragtime, can we devise a protocol for tracking Exotics?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it.”

  The surviving bots crawl and start cutting into the reactor adjacent to the plug. It seems to take too long to Shell.

  “If we don’t do this fast, the others are going to discover where we’ve gone.”

  “Are you at peace with your gods?” says Fin.

  “I don’t have any gods. You?” Shell raises an eyebrow.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Heaven or hell?”

  “Yoruba don’t have hell. Life is hell. When you die, you go to heaven.”

  “Neat. No Catholic guilt.”

  “You have no idea.”

  They go in together, previous antagonism forgotten; Shell first, then Fin. It’s different inside, more than just a service tunnel. It’s covered with organic matter.

  Fin drags across it with the butt of his rifle. “Tough. Nothing scrapes off.”

  “What do you suppose it is?” asks Shell.

  “I have not even a tiny idea. Pretty sure it’s haram, though.”

  They keep going until they come to an intersection. They split up, working in synchrony even with different putative objectives.

  She turns a corner and sees him, laying down the wax or resin or whateverthefuck from nozzles in his gloves.

  Shell takes aim. “Brisbane!”

  “I see you,” says Brisbane. He sounds weak to Shell. She pulls the trigger when his head settles between the crosshairs. Nothing happens. What cheap gun did Fin print for her? She tries again, drops it, picks up the backup pistol, which also does not work. Fuck. She charges Brisbane and knocks him over. He is slimy with the… exudates. He easily bats her away, and she slams into a wall. He slouches towards her, stringy mucus connecting him to the wall slime. He’s also losing body fluids. He does not look well.

  He’s going to kill me and cannibalise what’s left.

  “Captain—” Ragtime.

  “Not now.”

  Brisbane smashes her across the head, and she feels her whole world tilt. She is surprised to be still alive, but the spacesuit must be part of that. God, it hurts, but she can still move. The helmet is not working well. Fuck it. She is going to bite him. Gross, but… fuck it. She removes the helmet and the stench almost knocks her back down. A mixture of a synthetic thing like a chemical toilet mixed with organic waste. Not shit. Worse. Rot. Decay.

  But I will bite off your carotid as my last act, motherfucker. I got nothing better to do. I was going to die today, anyway.

  “Step away from her, Pig-dog,” says Fin.

  “I see you too,” says Brisbane. Electricity seems to originate from him, traverse the wall and electrocute Fin where he stands. It flings him against a wall, and he jerks once more, then hangs limp.

  “Captain!” says Ragtime.

  “I am busy dying,” says Shell. Her jaw hurts. It hurts to talk.

  “Brace for impact!”

  “What… wait, what?”

  A massive shock rocks the entire ship, shaking both her and Brisbane. Stressed metal screams, transmitted through solids. Brisbane is gone like a shot.

  “Ragtime, what—”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you. I got a proximity alert. We’re being boarded, Captain.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Lagos: Beko

  The cabinet is complete. Their restlessness tells Beko they’ve heard rumours, and they’re frightened, and maybe they should be. The kind of threat they’re facing is new to humanity: the threat of space conflict, Yan Maxwell’s contingency fuck you to the known universe in the event of his death.

  “Listen up. The Clandestine, the Pica and the Rowdy are literally hours away from Bloodroot’s orbit. Scans tell us Governor Biz and his daughter are on board the Ragtime, and they’re alive.”

  A small cheer goes through the gathered people, but Beko raises her hand.

  “Unfortunately, MaxGalactix owner, Yan Maxwell, who was on board, is dead – along with thirty others. This is probably why we haven’t had the all-clear. The Ragtime still isn’t talking to anyone, but the Clandestine is going to board to find out what the hell happened and to bring the governor home. That’s not the reason we’re gathered.”

  “It’s not?” says Awe.

  “It’s not. Lagos, graphics if you please.”

  The room darkens, and a hologram of space takes over. The Dyson elements gather and the bridge is forming.

  “This, my people, is the problem. The bridge is forming in response to a request from a ship called the Sinistral. It belongs to or is commissioned by MaxGalactix. I know it is hostile to us, and I have reason to believe it has armaments. I spoke to the charming captain of the Sinistral, and I can tell you right now when he finds out that Yan is dead he will lose his shit. Seconds after that, he will destroy Lagos.”

  “Nobody would do that,” says Ibidun.

  “He’s bluffing.”

  “You’re reading the situation wrong.”

  Beko raises her hands again, faux calm. “I’m not wrong, but let’s look at it the other way. There are nine million adults and children on this island. Do you want to wait and find out if my risk assessment is faulty?”

  “What do you intend?”

  “I think we have to destroy the Sinistral,” says Beko. “Before it destroys us.”

  “How? We don’t have offensive weapons. Nobody does. We may posture sometimes with asteroid rail guns, but nobody has ever fought in space.”

  “That gives us the element of surprise if we can come up with something. It’s self-defence. Understand that the Sinistral’s purpose is to find Maxwell alive or obliterate us for not keeping him that way. The captain is implacable. We have to kill the ship.”

  “What kind of ship is it? How large?”

  Beko sucks her teeth. “Whether it’s a tiny skiff like the Rowdy or the same size as Lagos, we still have to stop them.”

  “You’ll go down in history as the person who brought combat to space.”

  “Better than dying in the Brink. And technically, it would have been Yan Maxwell who brought combat to space,” says Beko, though she is unconvinced of this. History has a way of simplifying things.

  “I have an idea,” says Awe.

  Chapter Thirty

  Clandestine: Aaron

  On the bridge of the Clandestine, Aaron is laughing. He does not know how long he’s been staring at the screen. He and the captains of the Pica and the Rowdy have a wager going, and this delinquent ship is the prize.

  “Is that it?” he as
ks.

  “I’ve already told you,” says Clandestine.

  “Tell me again.”

  “That is the Ragtime.”

  “Tell me the rest.”

  The long-range scan returns and the visuals from the external cams merge.

  “Well,” says Clandestine. “That’s the Decisive attached to it, the ship Governor Biz took with him. That other ship is broadcasting its ID as the Equivalence. Bloodroot shuttle. The Ragtime’s broken. It’s a mess.”

  “I know. And I love it.” He’d theorised major damage and he imagines the burn on the other two captains when he turns out to be both first and right.

  The passengers must be in the toruses, without a doubt. The truss seems to have taken some damage and is open to space at one end, although a door of some sort forms a partial seal.

  “There’s something weird about that truss detachment,” says Aaron. He’s already calculating what he will do with his winnings. So what if he burned a little solid fuel on the way? The Clandestine will make it back to Lagos on ion alone, speed not being a factor.

  Aaron eyes the truss, speculating. It’s possible to remotely open an airlock, but the manual fail-safes make it impossible to traverse a hatch from outside without help from the inside.

  “Can you open that section?” asks Aaron. “It looks to be a simple door.”

  “I’m sure I can try,” says Clandestine. “The Ragtime is shy. Not responded to any of my overtures.”

  “Excellent. Latch on to the fore truss. Signal the Rowdy to take aft. I, in the meantime, am going for a walk. Lagos wants us to eyeball the dead and bring back our governor.”

  There are many kinds of fears, and Aaron thought he had experienced them all. He feels a new fear, the fear of getting what you want. The fear of being so close that it’s a heartbeat away, within striking distance, an all-or-nothing fear that tells you on a primal level that you’re either fucked or about to have your dreams come true.

  “Any movement from Bloodroot? Any response to us?”

  “Nothing. No communications either.”

  “All right. I’m going.”

  “Keep in touch,” says Clandestine.

  Out of the hatch, suited up, maybe five hundred yards from the Ragtime and closing. Behind, the Rowdy should be decelerating for contact. Why does he want to board? He doesn’t have to. He’s won the bet, so Pica and Rowdy can coordinate and get this done while Aaron counts his winnings. He is curious, though. He wants to see the crew, maybe help them? No, he wants to look them in the eye. A morbid part of him wants to see the damage up close. Or he just wants a spacewalk. Fuck it, he doesn’t need to have a reason.

  Close enough, he launches off the fuselage, umbilical behind, tethering him to the Clandestine. Space. Not quite like flying an airplane, but Bloodroot in the sun looks mighty fine, fertile, a place where humanity thrives. He hits the Ragtime hard. There is fine debris all over the broken segment and rapidly freezing globules of sickly grey liquid. Shattered machinery. Something traumatic happened here. Tiny ice crystals abound.

  “Clandestine, can you see me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this stuff?”

  “The fragments look like parts of damaged bots, shielding and hull. I’ll need a sample of the liquid. Just don’t drink it in the meantime.”

  “I don’t know, I’m feeling kind of thirsty.” He fiddles with the lock. Nobody is expected to be on this side, so there are no security measures to speak of. Something blocks the sun briefly and he has seconds to flinch before the Rowdy crashes into the Ragtime. It’s nothing more than a tap, but it shakes Aaron and a fair bit of debris loose.

  He’s safe, but the crash reminds him that he could die out here.

  “Are you all right?” asks Clandestine.

  “The fuck is up with Rowdy?”

  “Component failure. Retros didn’t kick in fast enough.”

  “Now they know we’re here.”

  “They already knew we were here. I’ve been hailing the Ragtime, remember?”

  “Or, maybe they’re all dead.”

  “IFC scans disagree with you, Aaron.”

  Aaron activates the suit’s emergency manoeuvring unit and aims himself at the opening. He feels transmitted vibrations as the Rowdy connects.

  “I’m getting an automated warning from Ragtime… proximity alarm,” says Clandestine. “And…”

  “Are you trying to kill me with suspense? And what?”

  “There’s a shadow.”

  “What do you mean? We’re in orbit. There’s a sun. The place is full of shadows.”

  “An AI shadow.”

  “In English. The hell do I know about AI shadows?”

  “There are two of them, Aaron. Two AIs in one ship. Maybe that’s the problem. Oh.”

  “What? Clandestine speak to me.”

  “It’s—”

  Clandestine goes dark.

  The door slides open and atmosphere vents just above Aaron’s head. He sees objects cannon out into space, some glinting in sunlight.

  “Clandestine?”

  He spies the ship veering away and detaches the umbilical to avoid being dragged out into the Brink. Shit. The venting loses steam and Aaron climbs into the belly of the Ragtime.

  Everything looked so splendid just a few minutes before. He had planned to buy drinks for everyone at his local on Lagos.

  There is a saying about counting chickens.

  Aaron has always hated it.

  The Ragtime is silly with alarms and leaking fluid and… are those plants? It looks like explorer ruins on those educational slides from Earth. Overgrown, decrepit. Where’s the crew? He pushes fast, dodges a steel block on its way out.

  “Clandestine!”

  Nothing. He leaves comms on an open channel.

  The Rowdy is attached. Probably. In here, there’s still enough atmosphere to transmit sounds, and nothing he hears is reassuring. He needs to make his way to the torus – assuming Rowdy attached to the agreed one.

  The flashing lights make it hard to see, and he can’t turn on night vision for the same reason. He reads the signs. There’s a turn into a spoke, but he needs the more fore spoke. Or was it aft? He turns to check… right into the muzzle of a gun.

  A woman has her gun right at his head. She’s in a tight compression suit, and when he has the presence of mind to look beyond the gun he sees that she is smiling.

  “Bang,” she says into the open channel.

  “You’re not here to shoot me,” Aaron says, with relief.

  “Umm, no, I’m not.”

  “What do you—”

  “I just wanted you to know that I could. I know how this, uh, how this ends. I’m not the one who kills you.” She seems to sense something. “You’ve never been touched by Lambers.”

  What crazy person is this? Oh, wait.

  “You’re Joké. You’re the Governor’s—”

  “You’re too late. Hurry now. Time’s running out,” says the woman. She drops the arm holding the gun to her side.

  “Where’s Governor Biz? We need him. What about the rest of the crew? Are you in danger? There’s atmosphere on the Rowdy.”

  She smiles even wider. “We’re going to meet again one day, you know.”

  She turns and barrels off in the opposite direction. The Ragtime seems to be going into strange rotations, and Aaron hurries away into the nearest torus because what the fuck. Signs of destruction all through. Sacks of garbage; items stored against the walls float free and stream outside. Unrecognisable bits of technology mix with the carcasses of fatally wounded small animals. Why are there animals on board? Aaron imagines the temperature has dropped considerably.

  “Rowdy, Rowdy, come in, come in,” says Aaron.

  “Rowdy One. What is your callsign?”

  “Clandestine One, over.”

  “The hell are you, man?” Gruff, no-nonsense, daredevil type.

  “I won, motherfucker. Count out my money. Anyway, I’m inside t
he target. Are you attached?”

  “Affirmative, Clandestine One.” Dead air. “Err, do you know your skiff is drifting down to Bloodroot?”

  “Repeat?”

  “The Clandestine is in the gravity well and—”

  “What?”

  “Not only that, buddy. The Ragtime is convulsing. I don’t know what’s going on, but you have to get out of there.”

  “Stand by, Rowdy. Clandestine One out.” Aaron switches channels. “Clandestine, come in, come in.”

  “She cannot answer you,” says a new voice, cold like ice water dripping down his spine.

  Aaron stops, holds on to a rail. The juddering is loud in here, but at least there’s not as much debris floating around any more.

  “Who is this? Who the hell is this?”

  “My name is Carmilla and I am taking your ship.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Ragtime: Brisbane

  “We’re hurting people,” says Brisbane. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I was only here for Yan Maxwell. This isn’t good. This is not good.”

  “Stop thinking about that and go where I tell you,” says Carmilla. “I’ve got a ship for us. You are barely clinging to life and your movements are mostly the suit right now. We still have a mission, and I am going to make sure that—”

  New, searing pain rips through Brisbane’s left flank. He sees globs of blood float and he can feel the suit adjusting, applying pressure, sealing itself. He looks around to find the danger and he sees the woman taking aim again.

  “We’ve lost your left kidney,” says Carmilla. “Follow the arrows, Brisbane. Move.”

  He does, though he feels cold and has no awareness of his body or any intentionality to his actions. He is on automatic. He traverses tunnels drilled into the Ragtime that weren’t meant to house humans.

  “Stop,” says Carmilla.

  Sturdy-looking bots await, dozens of them, poised at a wall. Carmilla instructs them and they cut and drill through. Even in his near-delirious state, where the bots look like carnivores eating prey, Brisbane notes that as they cut, their tools become blunt and are replaced. They’ve been working at this for a long time. They’re at the shielding.