“How flattering,” Çrom said.
“But the copies in our archives are a little more special,” Rosedian continued enthusiastically. “Our recursive dataspace is part of the wider Pinian Brotherhood archives, you see. Connected to the fabled I-Spy network and a few other esoteric troves that the Brotherhood uses to collect their information. I was part of the development project, at least as far as the Category 9 integration went. These archives were used to carry the massed knowledge of the Pinian worshippers back to their homes and keep them safe – but once you have an archive that big, it tends to take on an impetus of its own. Knowledge is power is life. The archives carry echoes of the deepest Pinian stories, even the ones that have been nevermade. Like intact echoes of the Adventures.”
“Sounds great,” Çrom said, and Greyblade recognised this tone as well. His gates and walls, which had not really come down in this strange place, were now locked and barred and patrolled by those ever-vigilant guardians, sarcasm and flippancy. “The long winters must fly by. It is winter now, right?”
“So you didn’t take your title from the fact that you’ve been doing battle with a God since you arrived out here?” Greyblade’s filtration system went to work separating out the alcohol – of which there was a considerable amount – from the bollk. Çrom took another reckless mouthful of his own drink, and barely coughed the second time.
“Alas, no,” Rosedian confessed. “We failed to kill the God beneath Wyrm. And the archives were of no help, as you might imagine.”
“That’s a shame,” Greyblade agreed. “As you will have seen from our introductory packages, we came here looking for an Eater of Gods.”
“Yes. Sadly, you’ve found nine very powerful sentient weapons platforms, and an eater of dreadfully nutrient-controlled snacks,” Rosedian lifted another nibble from the platter, and held it up temptingly.
Greyblade shrugged and picked up the tray nearest him. He took one of the angular blue-grey snacks and popped it into his mouth. He chewed as tidily as he could.
“You eat these regularly?” he asked.
“Oh no,” Rosedian replied. “No, this is a special occasion. My standard nutrients are far blander.”
Greyblade set the plate back down and picked up his glass. “What about this local copy of Wyrm?” he asked. “No better fortune here?”
“There is a God down there,” Rosedian said, “deep. Beneath the ruin. Lurking in unreality. It makes the rocks of this place shine, we think, but we don’t understand and we’re never likely to get closer. This was simply the best approximation we could reach, and we could go no further.”
“And you had no success making war on It?” Greyblade asked.
“We could draw It out, like a Riddlespawn from its Tower,” Rosedian said. “But doing so would kill most of us. And It would tear the rest of us apart, in Its rage and Its grief. So,” he went on, “you found us, obviously, after going to Wyrm. And that’s where you found the … heart of the Nathñiata,” his face hardened a little.
“I’m very sorry about the platforms that were lost on Wyrm,” Greyblade said. “When we arrived, we homed in on the Nathñiata’s Bharriom signature. And our … noncorporeal associate, Jank, was melded to the crystal by a process of superphysics we don’t understand, and neither we nor she could control. The Bharriom…” he paused, gathering his thoughts. Assembling his diplomatic deck.
“The Nathñiata was millennia dead,” Çrom announced abruptly. “A broken string of sad little thoughts spinning in the cold where you’d left her, after she’d died to help you escape. We used those final lonesome thoughts to find this place, and then we pulled the plug on her. Our friend, Jank, took up residence in the Bharriom bar. If you can find a better use for it, go ahead. I mean you’re the genius who designed them to be unique and non-interchangeable,” he raised his glass. “Now’s where you thank us for putting your daughter out of misery she didn’t even know she was in.”
There was a long silence. The flesh shade of Arbus Rosedian glanced at Greyblade in quiet but clearly amused contemplation over the edge of his glass.
“Sir Greyblade?” he inquired.
Greyblade reached up and closed his visor.
“You heard the man,” he said.
Rosedian’s ears lifted and opened in slow approval, and he sipped his drink.
“I have a condition I’m going to want you to meet,” he said. “When the time is right.”
“Consider it met,” Greyblade replied.
“I’ll hold you to that on your honour as a Burning Knight,” Rosedian said.
“Of course.”
“Did I black out for a second?” Çrom asked. “What are we talking about?”
“My daughters and I have studied the data you sent us, as I said,” Rosedian went on as though the previous exchange had never occurred, which had the benefit of making Çrom look even more wretchedly confused. “It was fascinating. You know that the Godfangs cannot by treaty interfere in this manner. We’re not just on a mission out here. We’re exiles.”
“You did think of that, right?” Çrom asked Greyblade hopefully.
“I did,” Greyblade replied. “Direct intervention in Pinian sovereign realms is permitted under the existing treaties. And even if it wasn’t, we’re not intending your daughters to actually fire any of their big guns in combat.”
“Technically,” Rosedian said, his ears lifting further.
“Technically,” Greyblade agreed.
“And this … Treaty of Mumbai, of which the humans are so protective?” Rosedian smiled.
“There are clauses. Loopholes,” Greyblade replied. “In a funny way, this action would actually be enforcing the Treaty of Mumbai.”
“Also, fuck the Treaty of Mumbai,” Çrom added.
Rosedian’s smile widened. “I think we can work with that.”
The voice of the Natha’i spoke from the ceiling. “We are curious,” she said, “what condition Arbus has demanded for our service.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Greyblade replied.
“Especially considering that it is unnecessary,” the Natha’i went on. “We began preparations to mobilise as soon as you sent those data packets. At long last, our deadlock has ended by intervention from a trusted Brotherhood representative.”
“That’s good to hear,” Greyblade’s anger had faded upon his exchange with Rosedian, but he was mildly surprised to find that it was still there.
“So it seems Arbus got a promise from you in exchange for something you were going to get anyway,” the Natha’i concluded.
“Crafty old devil,” Greyblade said levelly.
“Wait,” Çrom said, “did I hear that right? Are we–?”
“Yes,” Greyblade said. “We’re going home.”
THE LONG WAY HOME
The Godfangs, as it happened, had an empty demand of their own. Çrom Skelliglyph was not to continue darkening their decks with his accursèd shade. This was an empty demand, of course, because Çrom had never intended to hitch a ride home with the platforms.
“I’m sure they’d be very hospitable and dock the Highwayman in a nice well-appointed berth,” he said, “or let her merge relative fields and fly convoy. And I’ll be honest with you, that would be a thing – to be the first actual convoy defended by Category 9 Convoy Defence Platforms since the first Worm invasion – but it just doesn’t make sense.”
Greyblade and Çrom had left Rosedian and his daughters to finalise their preparations after such an extended period at dock. They’d returned to the Highwayman to discuss their options, and enjoy a final meal together before parting ways.
“You just want to race us back,” Greyblade accused lightly.
Çrom snorted. “Please. That wouldn’t be sporting. But I’d also be lying if I said I’m not invested in our paths diverging at this point. You and the Godfangs are heading for death and glory, and I’m heading very purposefully for neither,” he busied himself with his plate of food, which – like Ros
edian’s had been – was slightly more special-occasion than his usual allowance.
“We’re still going to have to rendezvous at a neutral and reasonably secret location before we bring the Godfangs into Four Realms airspace,” Greyblade said. “I’m afraid I’m not quite done with you yet.”
“I figured,” Çrom said moodily.
“And Rosedian – or possibly the platforms, I can’t tell where one mind ends and the other takes up – is picking apart the data we brought,” Greyblade added. “Gazmouth’s preliminary theories and estimates. Before we can even begin to tie this whole thing together, we’re going to need to make sure the sisters of the prophecy are ready to do all the things our friends from Ogrehome have been dreaming up for them. But if you want to make your own way back, and wait for us, that’s fine.”
“‘Just don’t make me have to hunt you down when I finally get back into the Corporation’?” Çrom guessed.
“Correct,” Greyblade agreed. They both chuckled. “Will you at least share your optimal routes back?” he said. “I know you had it all planned and you thought it would take another decade or more–”
“I’ve already shared all my navigation data with them,” Çrom said. “Up to them whether they listen to me or not. Or I guess I should say it’s up to you to make them listen.”
“I don’t know how long it took them to get out here, but I get the feeling it was a long time. We’re going to need to find a shorter way back,” Greyblade said. “Rosedian mentioned a few possibilities. The shortcut we took out here might be out of the question because we have the Godfangs with us, but others might be available to us that were not available to the Highwayman, for exactly the same reason.”
Çrom winced. “Just try not to fight your way home. Remember what Odysseus said: ‘Sometimes it’s the journey and not the destination, but don’t be a dumbarse about it’.”
“Odysseus never said that.”
“He would’ve if he’d had even a fraction of the sense of humour his navigator did,” Çrom replied positively. “Besides, you’re awfully sceptical considering the mission you’re on – and who you’re on it with.”
“Fair to say,” Greyblade conceded with a chuckle.
“Who’s going to take Jank?” Çrom asked.
They’d left the strange Alien on the control panel for now. She seemed perfectly content to sit there on her tattered cushion and her broken, gleaming crystal bar made from the heart of a dead monster. It seemed like a perfect representation of her existence, Çrom had remarked.
“You take her,” Greyblade said. “Get her out of sight and out of mind. I think she makes the Godfangs uncomfortable despite your alcohol-fuelled diplomatic outburst.”
“See, if Lazy Refusal To Accept Personal Responsibility wasn’t my middle name…” Çrom said whimsically, then grew serious and set down his fork. “You got pretty mad in there,” he said, pointing at the ceiling and the looming Godfangs above. “I could tell, even though to say you’ve got an impassive exterior is a hysterical understatement.”
“Arbus Rosedian is a legend,” Greyblade explained. “He studied the forbidden and deadly works of the Kernians. He stared down the Relth. Multiple times. He was the salvation of entire civilisations of Pinian Brotherhood worshippers. That, up there on the Natha’i’s bridge, wasn’t Arbus Rosedian.”
“Ah,” Çrom leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass. This one contained a less potent cocktail, although it was still far from narcotic-free. “A cheap copy of the real thing? Or a too-real copy of the mythic thing?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that it’s a faithful rendering,” Greyblade said. “He’s not a copy. He’s just not himself anymore, either. He’s been made to keep on going, long after he should have become a legend. He’s been prolonged, and patched up, and remastered, so many times that he’s just an intellect, held together with weariness and wrapped in flesh.”
“Is that what you think of me?” Çrom asked quietly.
“Hell, it’s what I think of myself,” Greyblade said, “but I can’t exactly appreciate it from the inside. You? Yeah, pretty much,” Çrom flinched. “I like you, Skelliglyph,” Greyblade went on, “but … well, look at it this way. What was done to you was a curse – the great grand-pater of all curses, laid down by the dread Ghåålus Himself. Would I undo it if I could? Yes. I’d march you up to Limbo’s door, shake your hand and guide you through. And am I angry at Nnal for doing it to you in the first place? Sure,” he shrugged. “Why not? I can rail at the storm just like any other idiot,” he pointed at the ceiling as Çrom had a short while before. “But what was done to him,” he said, “was done by them.”
Çrom nodded slowly. “And when the time comes,” he said, “you’ll meet that condition of his.”
“On my honour as a Burning Knight,” Greyblade confirmed.
Çrom sat and looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Good,” he said.
They didn’t really say goodbye, although it was likely to be years until they met again. Greyblade was going to be travelling with a fleet of Category 9 Convoy Defence Platforms, which despite the unnerving sight of the killing field on Wyrm, was a distinctly invincible feeling. Moreover, they weren’t going to be stopping to do war with any Alien Gods on the way back, and the various routes they were contemplating were all safer than the one he and Çrom had taken out here in a practically unarmed pleasure cruiser. And as for Çrom himself – well, he’d get back in one piece if he had to walk, so there wasn’t really any question. One way or another, they would meet again. Treating this temporary separation as just that – temporary – was an unspoken way of ensuring it was so.
“See you on Declivitorion,” Greyblade said, when they’d finished their meal and were standing near the top of the access ramp. They’d agreed on the neutral planet on the outer edge of Cursèd’s Playground as their rendezvous point despite Çrom’s initial unwillingness to bring his precious Fhaste anywhere near the place.
“Don’t lose any of your flock along the way,” Çrom advised. “We don’t have any more.”
Greyblade craned over to call into the pilot’s console area. “Take care of him, Jank,” he entreated their odd travelling companion.
“Close the door,” her voice came back. “You’re letting the warm out.”
Greyblade looked at Çrom, who shrugged.
“She’s not actually wrong,” he conceded.
“Alright,” Greyblade said. “Oh, and can you do me a favour?” Çrom raised an impatient eyebrow. “Find a bottle of Modarkan plum wine,” he said. “A vintage later than the Fifteenth Dynasty.”
“That is a stupidly specific – wait, later?” Çrom frowned. “So any skanky old bottle of Modarkan plum brewed up in a bathtub last week will do?”
“A nice bathtub,” Greyblade said, “but it’s a common wine, yes.”
“Alright,” Çrom promised, looking baffled. “I’ll get it. You’re a strange fellow, Sir Greyblade of the Ladyhawk.”
“Strange as they come.”
Greyblade stood on the icy slope and watched the sleek, gorgeous shape of the Highwayman curve up into the sky and accelerate away.
Ware the Ferry Man, he suddenly couldn’t help but recall the final fragments of the prophecy of Cara-Magna Áqui, formerly of the Whispered Truth. Pay him nothing until you are safe on the far bank. Pay him nothing even then.
I’m still missing something, he thought.
He filed away the significant but currently un-actionable feeling of unease, and stood a few moments longer. The Godfangs were beginning their shake-down and lift-off sequences, rumbling up out of the ice and rising into the light-speckled vault of the sky, glowing an unearthly white against the void and underlit by the blue glow of the crystal spires. They looked strangely aquatic, like behemoths of the deep clawing their way towards the air.
Greyblade watched them for a while, then returned to the Natha’i where she still stood at the base of the crystal supermountain. He rode the elev
ator back up to the Grand Bridge, and joined Rosedian where he waited on the central command platform. They stood and watched the Natha’i’s sisters rising into formation, still shedding slabs and chunks of ice and stone. Then Greyblade turned to look up at the ancient Molran.
“So,” he said. “I suppose the first leg of our journey is the long inward stretch of the Nonsense Network. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”
Rosedian grinned. “Actually,” he said, “we have a bit of good news for you there, Sir Greyblade.”
“Oh?”
The floor shook very lightly, and then there was a blast of deep, doleful noise that would have burst his eardrums or loosened his bowels had either of those organs not been artificially augmented. Rosedian continued to grin as though unaffected. The viewscreen widened to 360° and, as the great horn sounded again, Greyblade watched the landscape tilt and drop away slowly beneath them.
“Yes,” Rosedian said. “Because the fastest way in through what you call the Nonsense Network … is actually out.”
The landscape tilted more sharply in the viewscreen, and the deep dark sky suddenly leapt at them.
The Natha’i and her sisters flew for home.
THE MILKY WAY CULT
Ludi pulled the woolly jacket tighter around herself and shivered. She’d come on the tour because of the story, the stupid story and its first glimmers of potential in almost three years. And she’d been regretting it ever since.
It was her first time outside the Interdict, even if technically they weren’t outside in any legal capacity. They were a diplomatic group of clerks attached to the Archangelic court and as such their existence inside or outside the Interdict was a matter of interpretation. Ludi didn’t understand any of it, but when she’d dubbed herself a ‘Clerkangel’ Kozura had been cross and Lucifer had laughed, and that was good enough for Ludi. But getting up here, and actually staying up here while whatever was supposed to happen, happened … they were two very different things.
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