“So what next?”
“Well,” Greyblade said thoughtfully, “the bar is intact, so I guess our next step should be to try to figure out if any systems are still being powered by it. I was hoping we could fire up some part of the fleet’s communications system and see if we can ascertain what happened here, how many Godfangs are in this wreckage, and if there are any others intact, here or elsewhere.”
“You were hoping that?” Çrom pressed.
“I was,” Greyblade nodded. “And now I’m wondering, if you and Jank know each other a bit, whether you might be able to work together to help us do it.”
THE FALL OF ROSEDIAN’S DAUGHTERS
After a few false starts and a lot of misunderstandings, Jank finally seemed to understand what her two amusing abreal friends needed.
“There is a slow web of mist that stretches within this stone,” she reported, “and extends, attenuating as it goes, through these ruins.”
Greyblade had seen the ancient, nearly-dead lattice of the Bharriom bar, and after a little fiddling with his sensor connection to the power spike was able to follow almost-non-existent threads that stretched back into the crumpled hull. There was no communication system, no tactical or operational controls, but it seemed there was an archive of sorts in a buried section of the ship. Or a fragment of an archive.
“Can you access any of the information in it?” Çrom asked. He’d had more success than Greyblade had in getting the former Falling Damned denizen to understand, so Greyblade left him to do the talking.
“This place was named Nathñiata,” Jank said, her voice subdued. “And … oh. It was a vessel. A ship of some – excuse me, a defence platform of some sort. But a vessel, yes.”
“We kind of knew that, Jank,” Çrom said, “but I suppose you didn’t, so it means you’re on the right track. That’s great. Anything else?”
“Only strange shadows…” Jank said. “Let me see,” she fell silent for a time, the flicker of her red-and-black flame slowing to a languid twist. “Yes,” she eventually said, “there was a battle. The Nathñiata and the other platforms did war with a civilisation that lived here. No,” she amended, her voice more intrigued than horrified, “not war. Slaughter. They wrought destruction on this place. Stripped it bare. And then…” Jank fell silent once more.
“And then?” Çrom pressed.
“And then, there is something else,” Jank said. “Something terrible rose from the depths. Not from beneath the ground, although that might also have been. No, this came from the white. It reached out of the unreal and crushed … some of the Nathñiata’s sisters. Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“It is confused. This thing was a God, of sorts, that had been soiled by the enemy they sought to–” Jank stopped abruptly, and when she continued her voice had become cold and stern – and, Greyblade thought, more than a little fearful. “It was a thing of the Worm,” she said. “Why have you come here?”
“Our quest is nothing to do with the Worm,” Greyblade said, “I assure you. We know that these vessels came out here to do battle with the Worm, and we know that they failed.”
“Of course they failed,” Jank said crossly. “Although…”
“Although?” Çrom urged.
“They came close,” Jank said, her tone shifting to grudging admiration. She resumed her sifting through the fragmented logs. “They drew the God out, by great sacrifice. It is not described in detail – or if it is, the account is lost. Many of the Nathñiata’s sisters came into conjunction.”
“The Godfangs merged?” Greyblade asked in excitement. This wouldn’t be out of keeping with Pinian technology and style. The Pinian Disciples’ own private vehicles were known to be able to join together into the fabled Category 10 Convoy Defence Platform – or at least it formed an important part of the platform. If Category 9s could do the same …
“Yes,” Jank said, then, “ … no. Perhaps. They came together, and they perished, and in doing so the God was drawn. The remaining sisters did battle with It here, and were slain.”
“All of them?” Greyblade half-pleaded.
“No,” Jank said, abruptly animated again. “No, they fought even knowing that they would perish – but they fought this fight to enable some of their number to flee, and regroup, and do battle another day.”
“Fantastic,” Çrom said enthusiastically, and elbowed Greyblade with a clang. “Ow. There were surviving Godfangs. You were right, Greyblade,” he turned back to the Bharriom core. “Any idea where the survivors went?”
“Wait,” Jank said.
In the silence as Jank delved, Greyblade digested and cross-filed what he’d just heard. If Rosedian’s fleet had confronted a God here, a Worm-infected God, and some of them had survived, they would have more information about how it was done. Cara-Magna’s prophecy – six of them do battle with a God, and die – suddenly made a lot more sense. He was surprised at how much relief he felt.
“Janky?” Çrom spoke up. “You got a place for us? Where did they go?”
“This makes no sense,” Jank complained. “According to what I’m seeing, they went here.”
TREASURE HUNT
“I don’t get it,” Çrom said.
They’d returned to the Highwayman, leaving a communicator down in the dark for Jank in case she could uncover anything else from the fragment of the Nathñiata’s memory. They hadn’t decided whether or not they were going to take her with them when they left. It would be easy enough to extract the Bharriom bar from its broken machinery, but doing so would snuff out the last traces of the Godfang. Greyblade had no intention of doing that, or leaving, until they were sure they’d gotten all the information they could.
“Perhaps it’s a riddle,” Greyblade said.
“A riddle?” Çrom said. “Really?”
“How awfully melodramatic,” Jank said from the console.
“Did you find anything else?” Çrom asked her.
“Nothing,” Jank said, “just a web of light stretching thinner and thinner through an infinite vault of darkness.”
“You were saying something about melodrama?” Çrom said in amusement.
“It is so lonely,” Jank said. “The last fragments I can find in the dark … show these vessels, these defence platforms, flying to this frozen and ruined land. And stopping here. Here. This very place.”
Çrom and Greyblade glanced at each other. Çrom was looking thoughtful.
“Well they’re not here now,” Greyblade said. “Maybe they left again, and the Nathñiata didn’t see it,” Çrom’s frown deepened. “Maybe they went somewhere else on this plain. It could be billions of light-years across. It could be as wide as this whole Dimension.”
“This very place…” Çrom muttered.
“What are you thinking?” Greyblade asked.
Çrom shook his head. “Not sure yet,” he said, “but I don’t know if I like it. Distract me, it’ll come. Jank?”
“Yes, Çrom?”
“No sign of a direction? They flew off, they came back?”
“No sign,” Jank confirmed. “No back. Barely an off. It happened – I think it happened – while the ones left behind were being destroyed. Including the Nathñiata,” she added sorrowfully.
“Dora,” Greyblade said, “can you detect any other Bharriom spikes? Power signatures in the wider area?”
“The only power signature in my sensor range is the Bharriom spike we are sitting on,” Dora said.
“You want to rephrase that?” Çrom said, but it sounded like an automatic response. He was still looking preoccupied.
Greyblade changed tack. “What about traces of other vessels?” he asked, keeping the question open to Dora or Jank – whoever happened to have an answer. “Engine output? Sign of relative field generation at higher altitude?”
“Running full sensor sweep,” Dora said.
“What are you thinking?” Çrom asked him, still sounding vague.
“I’m wondering if anyone
else has come looking for Rosedian’s Daughters,” Greyblade said.
“Anyone from the Corporation?” Çrom snapped out of his scowling reverie.
“Sure,” Greyblade said. “Rosedian’s fleet is one of the great military and technological powers of Corporate history. Alright, they apparently didn’t do particularly well out here, but they were a fleet of war platforms against an Alien God.”
Çrom nodded slowly. “Makes sense,” he allowed. “Corporate treasure-hunters would have come looking for them, wouldn’t they? Maybe even Alien ones too, but the Corporate ones would’ve had the advantage of actually knowing the Godfangs existed in the first place – and having a rough idea of where they went.”
“Really?” Greyblade said idly. “I thought you were the only one.”
“Only one alive, maybe. Okay, maybe they didn’t know exactly where to go,” Çrom admitted. “I just mean, the legend is fairly clear and the accords about the platforms say that Rosedian took them out Beyond the Walls, planning on destroying the Worm in its lair. So that’s something,” he turned and glared at Greyblade. “You were the one who started talking about treasure hunters.”
“I didn’t use the term ‘treasure hunters’,” Greyblade said, “but fair enough. This means that any treasure hunters who came after the Godfangs started by looking for the Enclave and any sign of a fight between the Worm Cult and the platforms.”
“Right,” Çrom agreed. “And this battlefield – this graveyard – looks to be just about the only clue.”
“So where did they go from here?” Greyblade mused.
“If they ever existed in the first place, why did they leave that big glowing bar of Bharriom and please don’t say ‘as bait’,” Çrom requested.
“Maybe if the treasure hunters ever existed in the first place, there was some more easily-trackable evidence pointing towards the survivors, and they concealed any trace of it at this end before they followed it,” Greyblade suggested.
“Go back to the bait thing,” Çrom said.
“I never said the bait thing.”
“Look, most of the hunters would never have made it this far,” Çrom went on. “If they took a safer route to end up here, it took them decades, or centuries. And they’d have to’ve known the way in the first place. I’m just not seeing it as a very realistic possibility. This Dimension isn’t really all that close to the Enclave, although it was an outpost I guess … you can’t just get these addresses from a register.”
“It’s something to search for.”
“Then the rest,” Çrom waved a hand, “the ones who did make it this far, most of them wouldn’t have made it past the Worm Cult anyway. Enclave or outpost, the Cult is dangerous. And then,” he concluded, “we basically have the same proof as we always have that nobody found them.”
“The fact that the Godfangs didn’t come flying back into Corporate space and start conquering Dimensions,” Greyblade said.
“Right. So even if they did find this graveyard, and even if they did find the next place, they didn’t get the Godfangs operational again.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It might mean that the treasure hunters found this place,” Çrom suggested, “followed the clues to the surviving Godfangs, and got them to fly … and are now out here somewhere, flying around, continuing Rosedian’s mission. Or conquering Dimensions out here.”
“Still not reassuring.”
“Or they could have gotten the platforms flying, but the platforms themselves prevented the hunters from doing so,” Çrom went on. “You know, squashed them for even trying.”
“Just stop.”
“Sorry.”
“We could search this Dimension for the rest of our lives and not find another power signature,” Greyblade said. “Both of our lives, and that’s really saying something. And they’ve had thousands of years to–”
“To plan,” Çrom said, slapping his hand on the console. “That’s it.”
“Did I distract you enough?”
“You were perfect,” Çrom leaned forward, eyes alight. “They did come to this very place,” he said, “to plan their next attempt,” he evidently assumed Greyblade’s expression was blank behind his visor, which was a safe assumption to make. “They flew into the Nonsense Network,” he went on, “and found a Dimension exactly like this one. Right down to the dormant Worm God. Maybe a molecule or two different one way or another. That’s where they went.”
“How far out would that be, though?” Greyblade exclaimed. “You’re talking about theoretical-numbers levels of aactur-level iterations before we get to just the right–”
“Maybe,” Çrom said. “Maybe. But not if I’m right about the Nonsense Network. I think it was made, either by the Godfangs themselves or by some older civilisation and the Godfangs figured out how to drill more Nonsense Portals into it, or at the very least how to navigate it. They found or made a Nonsense Portal route to where they needed to go.”
“This is supposition of the lowest possible grade.”
“But it explains how they left and came back to the same place, doesn’t it? How they’re destroyed here and intact here at the same time? How I saw them intact?”
“You also said we’d find all twenty-six of them out here,” Greyblade pointed out.
Çrom waved a hand. “I’m pretty sure all twenty-six of them are out here somewhere.”
“You also said you’d seen this graveyard but had been hoping to get here before it turned into one.”
Çrom sighed. “I know. I saw both, and I couldn’t reconcile it. That’s what I was trying to explain and get through to you, but everything I said just seemed to contradict everything else. But this, this explains it. I wandered through both places – this one on my walk and the other one on one of my other trips.”
“If you flew through the Nonsense Network out to a replica Dimension with intact Godfangs,” Greyblade tried to be patient, “wouldn’t you remember it? Wouldn’t Dora remember it?”
“The Highwayman doesn’t have that degree of memory,” Çrom said, “especially not after changing hands as many times as she has. Security reasons. And Dora’s navigation breaks down if we fly through too many Nonsense Portals. The trip we already took is about her limit, and that was just through the shallows. If I’m right, we’ll have a much deeper dive ahead of us.”
“This can’t be our only shot,” Greyblade said, directing his statement at the urverse in general.
Çrom spread his hands. “It’s your mission,” he said. “I’ve gotten you this far, but I’m not going to try to capitalise on that.”
“Very decent of you.”
“But the only difference between the journey we’ve just completed and the journey ahead is, now I’m letting you in on all the crazy guesswork and hunch-following,” Çrom went on. “We can stay here and look for more information as long as you like – but the clock is running forwards again now. And we can’t walk it back again,” he stood, and crossed to Greyblade’s console. He leaned down and looked earnestly into Greyblade’s visor. “Two months,” he said. “Give me two months to find the replica Dimension. If we haven’t found it by then, I’ll hand over Dora’s command codes and you can leave me to walk home. You can go and recruit nine or ten of anyone or anything you want, from any horrible place you come across.”
Greyblade sighed. “You’re really certain about this.”
“Certain as I am of anything,” Çrom said. “As I’ve told you before, the urverse isn’t rich in certainties and absolutes.”
“And I thought I understood what you meant back then,” Greyblade replied. Çrom grinned. “Through the Nonsense Portal?”
“And straight on ‘til sunrise,” Çrom agreed.
Greyblad nodded. “Jank?”
“Don’t you even think about leaving me down here, Sir Greyblade of the Ladyhawk.”
Greyblade stood. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s grab Jank and get the Hell out of this bonefield.”
; “You’ve relaxed a lot since I first met you,” Çrom congratulated him.
“I imagine it’s a survival mechanism,” Greyblade muttered. He turned as he reached the top of the ramp. “Two months.”
“Two months.”
“And then you’re walking home.”
“Done it before.”
RE-ENTER NONSENSE
After the three-hour jump back to the last Nonsense Portal and the uncomfortable stretch through it, they actually used up the following week and a half of Çrom’s two months flying to a different Nonsense Portal altogether. The way they had come, Çrom said, wasn’t the way they now needed to go.
Nevertheless, he was confident enough not to begrudge Greyblade the mild injustice. At the end of the tenth day, they pulled up at the innocuous grey disc and Çrom began to enter directions.
“You know this is going to be rough,” Çrom said. “Last time we just jumped through five little Portals on the edge of the Network – as well as the one out of Naskiraqad, which we slept through. This time we’re going deep, we’re going far, and we’re not going to be doing much Dimension- or Highroads-hopping in between.”
“I’m ready,” Greyblade said.
“How about you, Janky? You ready?” Çrom asked.
Jank was now sitting on a threadbare velvet cushion from the Highwayman’s stateroom, resting on the bare upper part of Çrom’s console where he normally set his meals and drinks. Most of Skelliglyph’s furnishings – those that weren’t brand new and completely soulless – were antique to the point of falling apart, and the smell of preservative chemicals was currently permeating the bridge the way it had long since become a familiar background smell in Çrom’s cabin. Jank seemed satisfied with the arrangement, and the Bharriom bar’s soft purple glow lent a certain ambience that was worth the smell of the cushion.
“I am prepared,” Jank said. “I have rather enjoyed our last jaunts through Nonsense. It felt rather like I imagine dying might feel.”
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