Banner of Souls

by Liz Williams

  Moreover, the sense of haunt-tech was growing: ghosts whispering inside her skull, as neural echoes bounced forward and back; a sweaty quivering of the spine; the chill trickle of alien presence throughout her veins ... Dreams-of-War at last acknowledged to herself that she did not merely fear the Kami, but hated them. And yet she wore the weapon that they had supplied: the mesh between armor and ghost, the inhabited shell that kept her safe and on which she had so come to rely ...

  Yskatarina paused before a wall formed of interlocking plates, curved and overlapping like the shell of a pangolin. Her companion’s chitinous mandibles moved slowly over the surface.

  “What is it doing?”

  “Tasting for weir-sequences,” Yskatarina said.

  The lights winked out. The curve slid open. Yskatarina and Dreams-of-War stepped through into a cavern. The place smelled of electricity and age. Something lay at the center of the cavern: dark and glassy, with viridian shadows rippling across its membranes. The sense of haunt-tech grew to a screaming pitch inside Dreams-of-War’s body and mind. She did not recall ever feeling its presence so strongly before, even inside the Chain.

  “It’s a ship,” Dreams-of-War whispered. “How did it get here?” Her voice seemed to echo around the chamber, hollow and small.

  Yskatarina placed both palms against the vessel’s sleek flank. “Ah. Quiet, now. But it will wake.”

  Dreams-of-War’s armor was beginning to filter back technical specifications, storing details of metal and manufacture, skeins of eso-technic information. It grew clammy against her skin, as though absorbing the negative energies of haunt-tech and feeding them back across her body. She felt as though she inhabited the armor with a thousand ghosts. Her skin began to crawl.

  I remember this, the armor said. I remember you.

  Finally, suspicion began to dawn. Dreams-of-War stepped back, unable to bear the sensation any longer, but it was too late. The hand of her armor elongated and flowed out to weld to the side of the ship. Her arm was suddenly encased in a loose-flowing sleeve as the armor softened.

  “What—? Return to me!”

  But the armor, for the first time in their mutual life together, did not obey. Instead, it continued to flow, gliding up the side of the ship in a thick coat of moving metal. Dreams-of-War stood dismayed, clad only in her underharness. She turned on Yskatarina, but the woman was no longer there.

  “Open it!” she heard Yskatarina cry.

  An oval hole sprang apart the side of the ship, releasing a green fungal light. Dreams-of-War darted forward, growling, but was encased in sharp arms. Yskatarina’s creature, clasping her from behind, plucked her up off the floor as if she were featherlight, and threw her to the ground. Dreams-of-War sprawled across the floor as the ship began to move. Rolling over and throwing her arms over her head, she saw the creature disappear through the hole, which closed. The ship was powering up, sending shudders throughout the cavern. Dust and shattered stone showered down on Dreams-of-War.

  “Come back!” She could still see the armor, a bulky lump smeared across the top of the ship. The face of Embar Khair appeared briefly from the mass: eye closed, mouth open in distended horror. Then the roof of the cavern began to split apart. The ship was too high and too smooth for her to scale. Dreams-of-War scrambled up from the floor and ran to the sides of the cavern, where she cowered behind an outcrop of rock and shielded her face. The ship glowed, bright as a great jade eye.

  Then the roof of the cavern gave way. A mass of masonry tumbled inward: shards of tile, a carved dragon, a splintering fall of wood. Above the sea-rush of the craft, Dreams-of-War heard a thin, unhuman wailing. Then sound broke over her like a tide, stunning her, and the ship was no more than a star in the riven heavens, fading fast. Then the edge of the cavern gave way. Moments later, Dreams-of-War was buried beneath a torrent of falling stone.

  CHAPTER 10

  Elsewhere

  Lunae’s hands were trembling. She said, “How do you come to be here?

  “I have lived on.”

  Lunae gaped at her. “Lived on? For how long?”

  “Between this day, and the day on which I failed in my task. The day on which I failed to be the hito-bashira, failed to hold back the flood. As you have now seen, the Kami took sway over the system, ruled it, turned it into hell, sent more emissaries out into the Abyss to engineer other hells on other worlds. And now the end of times is here. They will go across the Abyss relatively soon, leaving one last little redoubt behind them.”

  “I’ve glimpsed the end of Mars,” Essa said. “It goes out in fire, as befits a Martial world.”

  “They have ruled for all this time? For millennia? And they let you live?”

  “They had no choice. I—we—cannot die, Lunae. Instead, we jump, just at the moment of the last of life. We spin time, like a weaving. We have a degree of mastery over it, and yet it still bends us to its constraints. And that is why Essa and I are going to send you back, to the days before the invasion, to fulfill your role as hito-bashira. To Mars in your own day.”

  “If all this is so,” the kappa said, “why can’t you escape from this place yourself?”

  “The Kami bound me into time. I can only watch, or snare my earlier self, and then only when she unties herself from the time-stream. Lunae the Younger is much more powerful than I, but untrained. She has not had the time to learn what I have learned, and I no longer have her abilities.”

  “But what must I do? Will I not be destined—was I not destined—to fail again?”

  “I cannot say.” Her own older face grew sad. “I do not know, after all this time, what I was meant to accomplish. It may be that all this is for nothing and you will fail again. But we have to try.”

  “Can you at least give me a date?”

  “All I can say for certain is that the event will take place at the Memnos Tower and you must go there. Nightshade had a machine there, a haunt-engine. I was discovered, and taken.” She paused. “You have to understand that on the day of the invasion, time was erratic. I cannot give you an exact day—and by the time you return, the day may have changed, anyway. Time is so fluid where you and I are concerned. However, do not trust anyone but your immediate companions. Do not trust the Matriarchy, or the woman known as Yskatarina Iye. Yskatarina is of Nightshade, and in your day, Memnos is ruled by one of the Kami in an inhabited body.”

  “And this person”—here the kappa gestured toward Essa—“where does she fit in?”

  “I am of Mars,” Essa said. “I endure.”

  “And she is to be trusted?” the kappa asked.

  “As greatly as anyone can be,” Lunae the Elder said with a trace of sadness. “When you return, try to find Essa, if you can. She will be able to tell you more; she will be in that time-stream.”

  “You said you could send us back.” Lunae shifted from one foot to the other. The small chamber was suddenly stifling, pressing in upon her with the weight of claustrophobia. “I ask you to do so.”

  “And so we will,” Lunae the Elder said. “But you must make the first move.” She gave a faint smile, as if remembering. “I envy you your recent memories, little-self. I should like to see a sea once more ... Take my hand.” She reached out to both Lunae and the kappa.

  “I wish you luck,” Essa said. She seemed to be fading back into the smoke, her features indistinct and blurring.

  “Now shift,” Lunae the Elder told her.

  There was a familiar sensation inside Lunae’s mind, much more powerful than any that she had ever experienced: the relationship of pindrop to thunderclap. She cried out, echoed by the kappa. The last thing she saw was the face of her elder self, eyes filled with tears, as the red world spun below and fell away.

  CHAPTER 11

  Earth

  Dreams-of-War awoke to find herself moving. She tried to sit up, but could not. She squinted around her, seeing curved walls and a low ceiling. Her arms were tied, as were her ankles, but she was not gagged. Dreams-of-War spoke.

&n
bsp; “Where am I? Where am I being taken?”

  No one answered. She tugged at the bonds, twisting in order to break free, but they were secure. Their edges were sharp, biting into her flesh at wrists and ankles. She could feel the motion of a vehicle beneath her, something riding and bouncing on pockets of air. There was a strong smell of raw meat, filling the enclosed space. Dreams-of-War was suddenly conscious of hunger. Her mouth filled with saliva. She turned her head to one side and spat.

  A sudden surge of acceleration hammered her against the wall. Dreams-of-War raised her head as far as she could, and squinted along the length of her body. Beneath a rough layer of sacking, she was naked except for the underharness. The memory of her armor being whisked into space on the back of the ancient ship was a sharp and piercing pang. Dreams-of-War lay stiffly back on the couch to which she was strapped.

  Loss of armor meant loss of her status as a warrior. She had often considered that she might be taking the armor too much for granted, and now that dependency had led to this: the armor’s loss, in a moment of misjudgment, and her own helplessness. Moreover, there was the knowledge that someone had handled her while she lay naked and unconscious. She wondered with fury what other liberties they might have taken. If anyone had attempted anything extreme, it was likely that they would have lost fingers ...

  That thought reminded her that she was not entirely without weapons. There were her teeth and nails: surgically enhanced with a small but effective range of toxins. There were the retractable barbs that Memnos had implanted into the sides of her tongue, the inlay that circled her scalp, the vaginal modifications. But none of it was as good as the armor, and unless she could free her hands, little of it was of any use to her, either.

  The vehicle was slowing. Soon it drew to a halt. Dreams-of-War heard voices, low and murmuring. Kappa? Memnos’s excissieres? She could not repress a shudder at the thought. The clicking of ceremonial dispatching scissors suddenly seemed alarmingly loud, echoing within the confines of her paranoid mind. But she was beginning to wonder if the excissieres had even been real, or an excuse conjured by Yskatarina to lure her down to the ship.

  From her limited viewpoint, this did not look like a Matriarchy vehicle, but then again, it was unlikely to belong to the kappa. Dreams-of-War ground sharpened teeth. And what of Lunae?

  The back of the vehicle swung open. A dismal artificial light flooded in, making Dreams-of-War blink.

  “Princess?” a voice said. “You awake?”

  Dreams-of-War recognized it immediately. Sek. Her heart leaped within her for a lunatic moment, before the realization came that it was probably Sek who had sold her out in the first place. Next moment, her suspicions were confirmed. Sek said, quite without expression, to someone beyond, “You’ve done well. This is, indeed, the woman. Her armor is missing, I see. That should make things all the more interesting. Take her to the combat ground.”

  Dreams-of-War snapped at Sek’s hand, missed. “You betrayed me!”

  “I have to follow my orders,” Sek said with a shrug. She did not seem greatly perturbed. “Memnos owns my boat; I do what I am told to do, nothing more.”

  “But why should Memnos betray me?” Dreams-of-War demanded.

  “There is a new Matriarch now. I’m sorry, princess.” But Sek sounded entirely unapologetic. “I follow the orders of the Matriarch alone. They said they would grant you to me as payment.”

  “Yskatarina. She’s from Nightshade, isn’t she? Tell me the truth! And who is the new Matriarch? What happened to the current one?” Dreams-of-War was too angry to reflect that she was not in the best position to begin making demands, but Sek only shrugged again.

  “I do not know about Yskatarina. I do not ask such questions; it is not within the terms of our contract. As for the Matriarch, I know only that she carries the seals of authority. I am of Memnos origin, like yourself. You know what that means.”

  “You are lying. Yskatarina has documents pertaining to Nightshade in her possession. I know where she comes from. You took us to a place other than our original destination. Was this all a ruse, to gain control of the ship? Has everything been because of a need for my ghost-armor?”

  “I do not lie,” Sek said, apparently unaffronted. “Yskatarina told me nothing, save where to voyage and what—or whom—to carry with me.”

  “Your boat. It uses haunt-tech.”

  “I purchased the navigation system from Memnos. I paid dearly for it, too, but it has been worth it.”

  “And what of now? Why have I been brought here? What is going to happen to me?” Dreams-of-War tried to keep a rising panic from her voice.

  “Why, I have already said it. You are to be taken to a combat ground, where you’ll fight.”

  “ ‘Fight’? Fight what?”

  Above her, Sek gave a distant smile. “You will see.”

  Remember, Dreams-of-War reminded herself later, alone in a small cramped cell. Remember what you used to be, so little time ago, a few years, no more. You have not always had your armor to rely upon. And what had the armor truly done for her, along with the spirit that animated it? Nothing more than possession, if one considered it in a certain light. There was a time when it was only I and none other to aid me ...

  Sek’s people had released her from her bonds, at least, and now she sat up and inspected the scars that covered her from shoulder to hip. Here: an arrow-wound from a skirmish out near Yslingen Fort. Those dappled, silvery bands: scar tissue from an electric flail, wielded by a war-madam whose name she could no longer recall. This notch: a hyenae’s tooth from a later engagement, knocked out by its contact with her rib. And then she had earned her armor and there were no more scars.

  She sat up with sudden resolution. I will just have to return to what I was. But resolution ebbed, draining away from her like water. Dreams-of-War, to her horror, was by no means sure that going back was even possible anymore.

  The faint light had long since died behind the cracks of the shuttered window when they next came for Dreams-of-War. Sek, accompanied by another woman, stood warily in the doorway, bearing shields and a prod that snapped and crackled with blue fire. Dreams-of-War studied the stranger. She did not look like either warrior or sailor, though she wore the latter’s salt-stained crimson. Her face was flat and closed, pinched in upon itself as though her features were suffering from permanent cold. The tilted eyes spoke of the north, but her hands, encased in fingerless red leather mittens, were as thick and shapeless as a kappa’s own. A hybrid? thought Dreams-of-War, and dismissed the notion with revulsion.

  “Here,” Sek said. “These are for you.”

  It was familiar fighting garb: a kilt, boots, underharness.

  “This is Martian gear,” Dreams-of-War stated, shaking out the kilt. It was almost identical to the one she had worn as a girl: standard battle wear, with a narrow metal waist-strip that was now bare of insignia. If she was to fight, she would be doing so anonymously. No doubt, Dreams-of-War thought with bitterness, it was no more than she deserved.

  “Of course.” The sour-faced woman spoke with impatience. “You are a Martian warrior. This is what they have come to see.”

  “Who?”

  “Your audience.”

  “This is an arenic fight? Gladiatorial?”

  Sek laughed. “A little grandiose, perhaps. Though, obviously, it is an arranged form of combat. Get ready; I am sure you are anxious to begin.”

  Sek was, in fact, right. Dreams-of-War was burning for action of any description. She was not, she thought, well-suited to enforced contemplation.

  “Very well.” She put on the boots and the kilt, then bound up her breasts while the women watched impassively.

  “Hold out your hands,” Sek said. “Yes, straight in front of you, like that. Good.”

  When she steps close to me, I will strike, Dreams-of-War thought. Her mouth was suddenly dry. The spines along her tongue slid forth, prickling her gums. Mucus welled up from the floor of her mouth, coating the soft parts wit
h a protective, hardening saliva. Claw-implants twinged at the tips of her fingers.

  But Sek was taking no chances. She raised the prod and touched a button. Azure fire flicked out and wrapped itself with barbed-wire pain around Dreams-of-War’s wrists. She tried to pull free, but the flame sizzled and hissed, singeing her skin until she forced her hands to relax within its fiery grip. Then it subsided, to a sharp ache and a band of bright blue.

  “Follow me,” the woman accompanying Sek said.

  Dreams-of-War did so, stumbling a little. Sek kept well out of the way. They stepped out into a filthy passage, luminous with opalescent mold.

  “Where are we?” Dreams-of-War asked.

  Over her shoulder, Sek said, “This is a very ancient place. It dates back to before the Drowning, before the eruptions. It was buried for millennia; it is known only to a few.”

  “Is it a temple? A palace?”

  “No one knows.”

  The passage ended in a thick metal door rimmed with rust. Sek pushed it open and Dreams-of-War followed her out into an echoing space. The ceiling was low and made of some kind of artificial stone. Columns of similar material ran at regular intervals into the farther reaches of the chamber.

  “Those markings. What are they?”

  “Letters, in some lost tongue, or numerals, or symbols only. Again, no one knows what they mean.”

  There were also marks on the floor: thin yellow lines and white squares.

  “It is believed they have ritual content,” Sek informed her.

  “This audience,” Dreams-of-War said, impatient. “Where are they?”

  The next moment, her question was answered.

  People streamed through the metal doors that stood at intervals along the chamber. Most were human women, though some were kappa and some, she was sure, were the Changed. There were a few whom Dreams-of-War was unable to place: faces that were out of proportion to their bodies, arms that ended in clubbed fists rather than hands, eyes set too deeply into the skull. She could have sworn that a handful of them were male. Perhaps these, too, were crossbreeds. It was forbidden, not to mention difficult, but there were all manner of backwoods genetics operations in these distant districts, impossible to regulate. She stared at them as they formed loose lines, stood unsmiling and silent, but she could feel their avidity.