Greyblade

by Andrew Hindle

  Fov circled Greyblade one more time, poking at his armour and the straps holding him to the vertical transporting gurney.

  “I’ll want to scan it,” he said.

  The Kedlam trio were Vorontessæ, three towering semi-humanoids with long, wiry limbs and hairless skin like beige leather. They were tough, but not in the same league as the Burning Knights’ stock. The three p’bruz g’tar were dressed in dark, glittering variants of the traditionally simple Vorontessi garb of straps and wraps. Fov sported some combat markers but Greyblade’s analysis and cross-check against Fov’s known civilian history concluded they were fake. All in all they were visually impressive but didn’t pose any particular danger. Their hired security, on the other hand, might be a different story. Greyblade’s sensors were still collecting data on that.

  “Go ahead,” Çrom said. “Mind you, if you want to confirm its authenticity you can always try shooting it with a pug blaster.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sid spoke up from a commendably strategic side of the meeting space. “Maybe set off its old auto-defence systems?”

  “I’m reliably informed that when the organics are gone, the suit can’t go off and get in fights on its own,” Çrom lied with aplomb. Kedlam eyed him narrowly. “It’s inert,” he went on. “Harmless. And priceless.”

  “If you’re going to start up about our ship again,” Fov began warningly, “there’s not going to be a trade here. In fact, if you’ll allow me to remind you of our unofficial family motto at this point–”

  “I know, I know,” Çrom said. “It’s not like that. Separate deal.”

  “I can’t believe you’re even still walking after the last hiding we had to give you,” Sid remarked.

  Çrom ignored him. “I’m not asking the full price for the thing,” he said. “I just want a fair cut. And you’re the only collectors set up to deal with something this hot.”

  “Where’d you even get it?” Fov asked.

  “You three are also the only collectors in a position to understand that sometimes that question doesn’t get an answer,” Çrom said firmly. “If you don’t want it…”

  “Hold on,” Sod growled. He was consulting a data feed, and Greyblade could have guessed what he was checking even if he hadn’t patched into the open network. “There was a Burning Knight came through Axis Mundi a few days back, and probably the same guy shipped back up the Road just tonight,” he scowled at his feed, then at Greyblade. He didn’t have access to the official files and Greyblade had altered his public record to display his appearance as a silver-armoured and white-plumed lesser officer, but it had been a quick and dirty edit. “You could’ve just given it a paint job to make it look like a Commander. Get a better price.”

  “Yeah, I could’ve done that,” Çrom said, and began counting issues on his fingers. “If I could give him a paint job that would stand up to any half-serious scrutiny, and if a Commander would fetch a sufficiently higher price for a middleman like me to make it worth the effort, and if I could even subdue an active Burning Knight in the first place, and if taking a Burning Knight off the street wouldn’t bring down a whole platoon of his buddies…”

  “Trafficking in dead armour isn’t much less likely to bring down a swarm of the psychotic fuckers,” Fov remarked.

  “Better do it quietly, then,” Çrom suggested.

  “Maybe the safe move would be to take the armour, and you, and hand you both over to the authorities. Act of goodwill,” Sid said, but Greyblade could tell from the tightening of his oculonasal folds that the Vorontessi was perfectly aware of how much a Burning Knight shell was worth to the right collector, and had already solved the goodwill equation for x and found x wanting.

  Skelliglyph didn’t need advanced microanatomical analysis to tell him the same thing, and he also knew the one variable that Greyblade didn’t – specifically, how much his demise was worth to the Kedlams.

  “Maybe that would be the safe move,” he replied, with impressive calm that didn’t even seem acted according to Greyblade’s sensors. Apparently that variable was well within tolerances – slightly surprising, actually. And Greyblade had only known Çrom Skelliglyph a few hours. “Better do it, then.”

  There was a brief impasse, but the conclusion was never really in doubt.

  “Alright, you mad monkey. You’ve got a deal,” Fov said. “Two million yachut19 finder’s fee, delivered on successful closing of the pass-on.”

  “You’re lucky it’s not alive in there,” Çrom said. “An offer that insulting would piss it right off. Three million.”

  “Two,” Fov scowled.

  “Three,” Çrom said placidly. “One up front, two when you conclude your pass-on,” he took hold of the gurney’s controls. “And before you reply, keep in mind that anything but an agreement comes out of your noise-hole, and I’m out of here. And since I can see you thinking about just taking the suit, you might want to scan for coded molecular explosives.”

  Sod stepped forward, scowling as deeply as his p’bruz, and held his feed device up to Greyblade’s chest.

  “It’s draped in dark threads,” he confirmed, and glared at Çrom. “That stuff will kill you as well, if it goes up,” he declared.

  “I’m a human,” Çrom grinned. “We don’t think about shit like that. Haven’t you seen the documentaries?”

  “Just pay him,” Sid growled from the other side of the room. “Kill him or snatch the suit, the threads’ll light up. He’ll have them deadswitched.”

  “Of course,” Çrom said. “Deadswitched. I mean, how technologically inept would I have to be to just have the threads linked to my data pad with a five-digit passcode?”

  Fov scowled a little while longer, then grinned broadly.

  “You are mad,” he chuckled. “Alright, we’ve got a deal,” he half-turned, sent a brief signal to one of his staff, and turned back. “One million now, two on closure, and we don’t see your furry little head sniffing around here again.”

  “Never,” Çrom promised.

  “And if word gets out about this–” Sod warned.

  “I think I’m just as eager for that not to happen as you are,” Çrom said.

  The Kedlams had time to bring out some more advanced scanning equipment and perform a few checks – advanced enough to confirm that Greyblade was as-advertised, but not so advanced as to prevent him from masking his more incriminating life-signs – before a goon, or possibly a hoodlum, arrived with a small case. It happened sufficiently promptly, Greyblade estimated, that the buyers had probably calculated what sort of deal they’d arrive at shortly after Çrom had contacted them to set up the meeting. Either that, or the Kedlams happened to have yachut sitting around in handy denomination-set bags.

  The underling, a heavily-armed and armoured Gatunwode,20 handed the case to Fov and then stepped back and seemed to become part of the furniture. Greyblade took note of the chameleonic ability, which was actually sophisticated enough to fool a lot of his antique sensors. Fov opened the case and held it out for Çrom’s inspection.

  “Happy?” he said sourly.

  “Always,” Çrom replied, and Fov closed the case and handed it over. “You should try it. Better for the digestion.”

  “Get out of here,” Fov said, but was once again struggling to hide a smile. “We’ll contact you when we’ve closed the deal and you can collect the rest of your fee.”

  “Bye, Threepy,” Çrom patted Greyblade’s shoulder amicably and turned to leave.

  “Threepy?” Sod echoed.

  “Just my little nickname for him,” Çrom explained vaguely. “You know, like … he’s creepy, plus one. And all that tacky gold, he’s just…”

  “Fuck off now, little monkey,” Sid advised.

  “You asked,” Çrom objected, then ducked his head. “Right. Fucking off.”

  Greyblade was wheeled down to a secure storage room where he was placed in the charge of two more chameleonic Gatunwode and a Retrograde Nemotite21 so severely augmented s
he resembled a snail crossed with a tank. The majority – but not all – of the security measures were set in place to protect the Kedlams’ investment from outside attack, so Greyblade was left considerately alone for a few hours to prepare his assault while he waited for the explosive micro-threads to dissipate.

  The collectors were as paranoid as all good criminals, however, and had a few inwards-facing systems. The surveillance was too advanced for Greyblade to disable, as were the lockdown protocols and the alarm comms, but he managed a few diversion programs and a muzzle-cap limiter that would be reasonably effective in diluting their response. By the time he was halfway done, he was beginning to miss the paradoxically primitive security and military systems of Earth.

  Once things settled down and he was no longer in danger of going up like a transpersion stack from the dark threads, Greyblade initiated a slow leak from one of his heat-sinks. It was a little undignified, but the grimy water trickled from an outlet in the ankle of his suit and formed a spreading puddle on the floor of the storage chamber. A couple of minutes later there was a soft chime notifying the guards of an irregularity, and one of the Gatunwode stumped over to peer in at the merchandise.

  “ … some sort of fluid,” it was saying as the door opened and it stepped through into the storage space. “The human might have sold you a–”

  Greyblade slid his feet forward, leaning back and making it look very briefly as though he was slumping out of his transport strapping. A split-second later he swept his arms and upper body forward, flinging the gurney over his head at the first guard. The huge figure was dashed against the wall, stunned but unharmed. If it had been responsible for opening the door, Greyblade reflected fleetingly, it deserved worse.

  The second Gatunwode, and the Reticulant, also displayed appalling judgement, albeit forgivable. They both hesitated far too long – almost a full second – in their unwillingness to open fire on either an expensive collector’s item or a real live Burning Knight. The automated measures, at least, acted fast. Greyblade stepped into the heavy door as it slid swiftly shut again, taking the brunt of the weight and the pressure seal’s enhanced mechanical force on his forearm. With a loud grinding sound from the ceiling, he lurched through and grabbed the Nemotite before she could start firing. The door closed, sealing the first Gatunwode inside, and Greyblade spun and propelled the Reticulant into the second with a crash.

  He didn’t wait for them to recover, but sprinted into the corridor and directly for the display vault.

  This was a prominent and high-security part of the property that Greyblade could have identified from the communication and energy traffic in and out, or from a brief tactical analysis of the compound’s external structure. He hadn’t needed to depend on either of those because the schematics were, if not public, rather too trusting of the local authorities in their completeness. To be fair, Greyblade was fairly sure the authorities were in the Kedlams’ pocket. The vault was, as the name suggested, for display purposes and that was where the ship was, but he should have expected not to be put in there. A Burning Knight shell – and the dead body within – was not for showing off.

  Still, it wasn’t far. He charged, practically through two more Gatunwode and tackled an augmented Molran before he arrived, taking the Molran’s cutter spike and tranquiliser gun before running him into a wall sharply enough to knock him unconscious.

  By the time Greyblade was at the main sealed checkpoint connecting to the vault, the comms system was up and a familiar voice was speaking to him from the ceiling. He went on cutting methodically at the checkpoint access while he listened.

  “This is Fovremorn Kedlam, attempting to contact the Burning Knight we mistakenly took into custody a couple of hours ago,” the Vorontessi’s voice said, in an oily tone that Greyblade hadn’t heard from the collector but which he suspected was meant to be ingratiating. “We’d like to formally apologise for this regrettable misunderstanding, and invite you to exit the premises and air your grievances in a safe and public setting.”

  Greyblade grinned silently, and continued to hammer away at the access seal. Another guard, a Gatunwode like most of the rest, slipped around a corner in full camouflage and was only given away by a shift in the echoes from the cutter. Greyblade extended his free hand and fired three trank pellets in rapid succession into the seam of its armour at the base of its tiny head. The Gatunwode sat down heavily. Another deft slice, and the main checkpoint shuddered open just long enough for him to plant hand and foot inside and jack it open still further. He rolled through, vaulted to his feet and ran on.

  “Needless to say we are in the process of tracking down the human that attempted to sell you,” Fov went on in the same obsequious tone. “He does not seem to have returned to his residence, which makes sense considering the severity of his crime … but we will find him,” a hint of cold metal entered the Vorontessi’s voice. “And if at that time you want to simply look the other way while we handle the matter, that will be quite acceptable. Allow us to formally apologise again and offer reparations…”

  Greyblade took a moment to feel almost sorry for the Kedlams, before launching himself at the second set of security doors. This set he simply cut at the seam, jammed his fingers between and forced open with another grinding crash. There didn’t seem to be any more–

  A beam of harsh three-count enhanced light speared out of the ostensibly empty corridor, catching him a glancing blow on the breastplate. He swung and rolled, letting the weapons-fire draw a dark-etched line up his chest and over his shoulder, then rose and fired the trank again. Another camouflaged Gatunwode fell, this time onto its heavily-sedated face.

  “We have ordered our security guards to cease fire,” Fov went on just a little desperately, “and we will be opening a passage to the main entrance. If you could see your way to–”

  Greyblade threw the tranquiliser gun at the nearest sound-source, and although there were others along the corridor Fov seemed to get the idea when the one nearest the Burning Knight shattered with a screech of fibre-noise. He stopped trying to bargain, and Greyblade turned his attention to the final seal.

  This one was little more than decoration, since he was now standing in the viewing gallery. He’d actually considered the possibility of getting this close simply by posing as an interested visitor, but the Kedlams didn’t make those sorts of appointments – certainly not with agents of the Brotherhood military, retired or otherwise.

  The transparent door gave way with a crash and he marched into the centrepiece of the Kedlam’s little collector’s empire.

  The pride of their trove, like the Drake’s I-Spy, was impossible to miss. Standing on a raised plinth in the middle of the spacious chamber, all red and black and silver, the Fhaste was more a work of art than a vessel. It was hard to say how much room there was inside for two humanoids, and how unpleasant it would become over a long period of time, but Greyblade thought she looked spacious enough.

  For a journey across how many thousands of universes, taking how many years, Greyblade thought, how long are we going to last and how many times am I going to kill–

  Shock made him actually stop thinking mid-articulation. He looked up at the name picked out in gleaming ultraviolet photoplasmic enamel on the nose of the ship.

  Charon, it read in his interpretative banks. An overlap of Xidh and one of the older human languages that preceded the veiling of the world. A story carried by humanity through all the centuries of the exile and the years of the exposed Earth since.

  Charon.

  Ware the Ferry Man. Pay him nothing until you are safe on the far bank. Pay him nothing even then.

  MAJESTIC LARCENY

  He didn’t waste further time staring at the unusual and contextually disturbing name, but his scan did nevertheless pick up an underlying series of traces that might have been an original set of decorative plates and enamel. The vessel – with due acknowledgement of the timescales involved – had essentially been stolen and repainted. It made se
nse that the name would also have been changed, to safeguard the jewel of the Kedlams’ collection.

  It was still a creepy coincidence. If indeed you could call anything connected to the insighted’s prophecies ‘coincidence’. Doing so seemed desperate.

  Let’s see if you really owned this ship, he thought grimly to Çrom Skelliglyph’s absent shade, and activated the encrypted recognition protocols the human had never been allowed close enough to use.

  The filigreed guidance lamps under the Charon’s aerodynamic lateral fins swelled to pleasant blue-green life, and the nose of the ship twisted open like a vaguely-erotic liquid-metal flower. It seemed like every last element of the Fhaste’s construction was a piece of the artwork.

  “Stop,” this time the voice of Fovremorn Kedlam was loud and high, bordering on panic. “You are about to commit an act of majestic larceny that carries a standard penalty of one thousand years’ incarceration and permanent designation to Class Five–”

  Majestic larceny, Greyblade thought in amusement, while his database confirmed that the category of crime really did exist. That’s one I don’t think I’ve done before. Suits this ship, though. He ran up the boarding ramp and let the nose swirl closed behind him, cutting the voice off completely. He wondered if the Kedlams had ever even flown the Charon, or if she’d remained locked and inert – an object to show off, but nothing more – since Skelliglyph had lost her.

  He also wondered if a warship with ten-tier gun decks and battle pennants flying could possibly attract more attention than this heart-wrenchingly beautiful machine.

  He activated the second layer of recognition protocols, and was rewarded with a notification from his sensors informing him that a small but very powerful refraction-pile power station had just come online under his feet and was buffering smoothly. There was a soft sound, a hum rising immediately out of auditory range, of a computer and comms system warming up after a long downtime. This, like everything else, was a decorative affectation. It could just as easily have fired up in complete silence.