Jupiter's Halo: Unbroken

by A P Heath

  She tried to tell him it had already been sent, that the comms array on the station allowed for radio messages but wasn’t equipped to relay real time imaging communication. He had shouted again, demanding she send more messages and that they wait in the loading bay for rescue. It had taken Hornwood stepping in and reminding him the communication terminal was on the bridge, before he backed down. He walked ahead of her now, occasionally turning to fix her with angry eyes, his lip curling in a sneer.

  She felt pressure on her fingers and looked down. Oliver had slipped his hand around hers. She felt the warmth of his palm against hers, let her fingers widen so his could slide in between them. He closed his hand around hers and squeezed it gently. She looked up and saw him smiling at her. That gentle, reassuring smile that made her want to throw her arms about his shoulders and never let go.

  She returned the smile, with a shy reflection.

  The link stair was a relatively short walk from the bulkheads of the loading bay. They were walking the outer corridor of the

  fifth level, its gentle bend leading them closer to their exit with every step. She knew the route, knew it well. It should only take a few minutes for their little party to make the journey, but every second seemed to stretch out with the tension they all felt.

  Hornwood and the other man with him walked ahead by a dozen steps. Their movements were swift and silent, like predators stalking prey. Emelia couldn’t shake the feeling that in this situation the real hunters were elsewhere and she and the others were nothing more than a target.

  Another minute passed in silence. Her palm was sweating against Oliver’s. She felt embarrassed and then stupid for that feeling. Amongst all this, running for their lives to an unsure destination that might be just as dangerous and she was worried about a sweaty palm making her look bad.

  Ahead of them Hornwood stopped, his back pressed against the outer wall of the corridor. He raised his right fist over his head and the rest of his team dropped to one knee, weapons up and eyes keen.

  Emelia felt the pull on her arm as Oliver went down to the deck. Hornwood had told them what to do. A raised fist meant danger ahead and every civilian in the column was to drop and hunker down until it was dealt with or passed. She followed Oliver down, still holding his hand as she placed the other on the cold metal and let her body follow.

  They lay there, breathing as quietly as they could as the boots of their protectors stepped silently over them. She lay with her face turned to his. His eyes were open, staring into hers and she couldn’t stop the smile from creasing her lips.

  Were it not for the danger, the cold hard surface below her face and the sweat slicking their closed palms, this would be another perfect moment.

  A foot came down between them and she felt a light tap on her left shoulder; the signal to continue. Oliver let go of her hand as he braced himself against the floor and pushed to his feet.

  She followed suit, feeling the cold on her palm as the beads of sweat evaporated into the stale air. She went to cross her arms, feeling odd and detached without his touch. He stepped

  forwards, then leaned back and took her hand in his again. She sighed inwardly at the touch.

  The link stair entrance was just ahead. Hornwood and the others had scouted it for enemies, but apparently found none. Now he was stood to one side of the opening, beckoning the doctors to make their way through. No one spoke as they moved. He’d been explicit about that as well. Idle chatter would give away their position.

  Emelia and Oliver followed the agents and doctors before them. Through the door and onto the short landing that joined this level with the stairs that ran up and down from it. As they passed him she saw Hornwood glance at their clasped hands. His face showed no emotion but she didn’t like the look of his narrowing eyes.

  Their destination was only one level down, but they had a longer walk down the outer corridor on level six to the closest evac pod bays. She knew she’d feel better when they got there. She knew she’d be able to breathe. Until then it was just a matter of holding her nerve and keeping quiet.

  She was halfway between levels when the shout came from above. One of the two agents standing by the door called out, “Contact!”

  A moment later her weapon was firing. The man with her joined his fire to hers, the concussive bangs of their rifles echoing down the link stair deafeningly. She squeezed Oliver’s hand. Another noise came from above, something somehow louder than the rifle bursts already filling the air.

  Both agents by the doors swung inside as an invisible blast passed between them. Neither seemed to be hit, but both were thrown from their feet. A pressure wave ran down the wall, shaking the stairs and knocking Emelia off balance. She tried to throw her arms out to stop her from falling, but Oliver still held her left hand. Her feet went from under her and she tumbled, pulling him with her, into the two doctors hurrying down the stairs in front of them.

  They rolled painfully down the last metre of steps, a jumble of tangled limbs and bruises. Emelia lay still for a moment, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked from her while the

  bodies under her groaned.

  Hornwood was at the door to the sixth level. His carefully held mask had slipped and he was glaring down on them, frustration and anger vying for control of his features.

  “Get up!” He yelled, all efforts to silence their escape forgotten. “Cross, Elba – get them to the pods.” He commanded as he stepped over Emelia and started back up the stairs.

  “Diagno with me.” Strong hands reached down and pulled her to her feet.

  She was dizzy, disorientated by the fall. Her shoulders were gripped to spin her around until she faced the open doorway and she was shoved hard out into the corridor beyond.

  She took a couple of hesitant steps before one of the agents swept past her. Elba or Cross, she didn’t know which grabbed her and pushed her into a run as he made his way up the corridor.

  She was dragged along, until she got her feet in place and then she was running. Running hard, fleeing from the rattles and bangs of fire that filled the link stair. Her mind had gone blank. Nothing mattered but keeping her feet moving. One then the other. She ran and ran.

  The evac pods on this level were set into a wide alcove that ran under the first portion of the loading bay above. Each one could accommodate twenty passengers and came complete with first aid, short distance comms array and rations of food and water to sustain the occupants for three full days.

  They were just ahead of her and to the right. She could see the doors to their compartment coming up fast. Her feet pounded the plates.

  The sound of weapons discharge had died away, its echo still following her as she ran. In place of the constant staccato of her protectors’ rifles was the sound of feet slapping against the deck plates and the deafening bang of the enemy’s weapons.

  She reached the doors, grabbing a long handle to slow her and prevent her overshooting, hurtling onwards down the corridor.

  She tugged the door and her pressure activated the hydraulics, both parts sliding away from each other and into the walls.

  Someone cannoned into her as she stepped through the gap, knocking her against the wall in the opening. She didn’t look to see who it was, the fear gripping her too tightly to allow for anything but headlong flight.

  The bay held five pods, arranged in a wide curve around the outer hull of the station. Enough for one-hundred people to drop to the surface so far below.

  There were only thirteen of them, but something made her run along the line, hammering the hatch release buttons with her fist on all five. More pods meant more rations, more chance of staying alive long enough to be rescued.

  The entries to each pod slid open in succession. She dived inside the closest as it opened beside her, crawling into the nearest couch to the door and pressing herself flat against the harness of the seat.

  The fat woman barrelled through after her, panting with the exertion of their flight down the corridor. E
melia jumped bodily as the other woman rolled into the pod, her nerves so stretched any surprise sent adrenaline pumping through her. After the woman came Bramley, ducking into the pod and scanning the empty couches.

  “Take another!” She blurted at him.

  He looked at her in surprise, possibly just because she’d actually spoken. He looked angry and she realised he didn’t understand. They had to take more pods. More pods meant a better chance of survival. She opened her mouth to tell him when he was pushed from behind by one of the agents. The man came in hunched under the old doctor. It looked like the older man had passed out, but as he was dumped uncaringly across three couches she could see his eyes were open, fixed wide in terror for his life.

  The sound of another firefight filled the corridor outside and Emelia pressed her hands over her ears.

  More bodies piled through the open hatch; Masj and Franklyn.

  Emelia screamed at them to take another pod. They ignored her, or didn’t hear her. Either way her message went unnoticed.

  The sound of gunfire was increasing. They were getting closer

  and Oliver was still out there. She dropped the harness she was clutching and leaned around the doorway. The entrance to the corridor was still open. Flashes filled the corridor. She held her breath.

  After a moment Oliver came into sight. He was dragging one of the agents by her collar. She was injured, but sitting up as he pulled her along the floor, her rifle held out in front of her.

  After a moment the others followed; Hornwood and the rest. They ran through the open doors, swapping the clips in their weapons.

  Hornwood’s pistol was gone, his sword held tightly in a two-handed grip. He threw himself flat against the wall and slammed his hand on the release for the doors. They hissed closed and he shouted out orders, pointing at supply crates and shelving that lined the walls at opposite ends of the bay. Emelia knew she needed to tell him.

  “We need more pods!” She shouted into the space of the bay.

  He looked at her for a moment, over the bustling forms of his remaining colleagues as they dragged crates and broken shelves across the doors. He didn’t understand. Either that or he couldn’t hear. No one seemed to understand.

  Oliver was trying to pull the injured woman to her feet by the hastily made barricade. Emelia couldn’t see what was wrong with her legs, but there was a deep gash spilling blood from the back of her head, down her shoulders. It made the material of her body suit gleam in the reflected lights of the pod bay.

  He looked up at her shout and then along the lines of the pods. He nodded and she could see he knew her intentions.

  Yes, yes. More pods!

  Hornwood dived through the open door of their pod, another of his men close behind. They obstructed her view, but she could see Oliver had turned to relay her message to the others that still remained by the doors.

  Even if they took just one more pod it would double their chances of surviving down there.

  A sound filled the bay. It was so loud she thought her ears would bleed from the abuse. The doors to the pod bay bowed

  for a moment then exploded inwards. The makeshift barricade blew across the bay, sending the people behind it bouncing like puppets with their strings cut.

  The man in the doorway to the pod was fired through it by the force. He shot past her, slamming hard against the internal wall and dropping to the floor. Outside the bay was a wreck.

  The woman Oliver had been dragging lay still, sprawled across the floor. Another was struggling to his feet on the far side of the bay. He looked up, clearly seeing something he didn’t like in the open doorway and dived sideways into the furthest evac pod. Her view was eclipsed again as another body fell through the doorway and onto the floor before her.

  It was the last of their protectors. It wasn’t Oliver.

  She looked out again, seeing dark figures turn the corner of the corridor into the bay.

  Hornwood was beside her, reaching for the command panel that would eject them into space. Her eyes searched the floor, the debris, for any sign of Oliver.

  She saw him, gasping for breath and pulling himself to a sitting position by the door of the last pod. She saw the dazed expression on his face, the blood seeping from his temple, the arm reaching from the last pod to pull him inside.

  The bay echoed with another boom sending crates and broken metal slats through the air.

  The shockwave carried them into Oliver’s body, pummeling him against the wall, shattering bones and breaking his body apart. Emelia watched his blood spray the walls as force dismembered him.

  She screamed.

  Hornwood slapped his hand against the panel, the door slammed down cutting her scream off, leaving only the clink and rattle of crates falling still behind.

  The pod fired from its launch cradle, into the cold of space, accelerating away from GS-114.66.1-Delta as it fell burning into the Earth’s atmosphere.

  FORTY-ONE

  Mylus Vant was lost in thought. His mind felt alive. As if someone had opened his skull and poured liquid fire into the grey matter they found below.

  He could not put words to the feeling. It was not unpleasant nor unwelcome, just…different.

  The closest he had come was to imagine his mind had been held below a buffer, something that had been there his whole life, entirely unnoticed until the moment it was stripped away. Now it was gone he did not miss it.

  Everything felt more real. Colours were brighter, sounds were sharper. He couldn’t see or hear any better, that wasn’t it. Somehow his senses were just…fuller.

  The mask of the Old Father faced him across the sparse interior of the chronicler’s chamber. The face it showed to the world was that of an elderly and kindly looking man. The eyes were small, painted in the squint of a smile, their edges a mass of little creasing lines. The mouth was set in a gentle smile, lips closed together, but still showing genuine pleasure.

  The exact identity of the Old Father was known only to the wearer of the mask. When the time came for choosing a replacement the body of the current Old Father would be taken into the ceremonial chamber at the very centre of the Halls of Mercy, by six of the most senior Fathers.

  Within the sealed sanctum they would select the next to wear that mask. Only the Old Father would walk from the chamber when it was done. The rest would be cleansed in fire, protecting the true identities of both the old and new. Once the mask was placed it would not be removed until its wearer died and another six would enter the sanctum. Through this tradition the Old Father gained immortality, for the wearer of the mask had no identity but that of the Old Father.

  It was unusual for the leader of the Fatherhood to be party to these proceedings, but then the search for the Truth of Aitkin Cassini had been unusual also.

  Before conducting his search the Old Father had cautioned Mylus on the importance of this patient. He would not reveal

  the why behind it, simply that finding the Truth of this man was imperative to their client and thusly must be considered imperative to the Fatherhood. He had been warned it would be a difficult task.

  Aitkin Cassini had shown himself to be strong willed and fiercely loyal. Mylus had been tasked with finding just how deep that loyalty would go.

  Now he was reciting the hours he had spent with Aitkin Cassini; every action he’d taken, every word spoken between them.

  Either side of the Old Father sat a scribe of the Fatherhood. They wore cowls of deep red, the hoods pulled up over their heads, leaving their faces in darkness. They wrote every word he spoke now, comparing his retelling to the accounts they had made during his session with Aitkin.

  The process was in place to aid the Fathers in their future searches for the Truth. They would recount every action and its varying levels of success, every word and its meaning and import. They would remember everything. If they didn’t, if their recall was not perfect, how could they expect to better their performance in the future.

  To have the Old Father the
re, listening intently as he spoke, would be enough to unsettle a novice Father. Mylus was not a novice though. He had found Truths buried deep in the minds of evil men, seen the redemption hidden inside the wicked and shone light on the latent darkness rooted at the core of the seemingly innocent.

  Mylus had practiced his arts within the Fatherhood for nearly two decades. He had been in the presence of the Old Father on many occasions within that span. This one and the one who wore the mask before.

  They are all the Old Father. He chided himself internally.

  “His truth was open for me to see and within it I found no malice intent.” He said out loud.

  The scribes paused in their scribbling.

  The Old Father raised his hands, interlacing his fingers and letting his thumbs rest against the mouth of his mask.

  “I am given to understand there was an…irregularity?”

  He tilted his head slightly, the smiling visage unable to change its features in mirror of his question.

  “I am not aware of any irregularities my Lord,” Mylus replied in earnest. “Perhaps you would be so good as to furnish me with further information?”

  The Old Father regarded him for a moment, the eyes behind the mask fixing him with their stare.

  The scribe to his left lifted his slate, indicating a section with his fore finger. Scribes were not permitted to speak.

  The Old Father turned to look over the proffered information then raised his head to study Mylus further.

  “At hour five, minute eight, there was a loss of data streams from the mercy cell spanning fifty-seven seconds.” The Old Father said.

  “Please explain again what happened during this time.”

  Mylus could hear the trace of uncertainty in the tone. Natasha In’Tuen had complained of something similar, but Mylus had been unaware at the time. Inside the mercy cell were the patient, the Father and the surgeon apparatus.