Greyblade

by Andrew Hindle

  Lucifer was in it to remove what she’d clearly always considered to be an unsightly blockage between her realm and Heaven. Gabriel was in it because he was apparently running out of superiors to say ‘fuck you’ to. Big Thundering Bjørn and his packmates were in it because it was happening in the room next to their air hockey table. And the human TrollCagers?

  Well, they were in it because they were ashamed of their part in the world’s current condition. Simple as that. Galatine might have been able to claim a more direct and dreadful load of bricks on his soul, but they all felt it. It was what had brought them together. That was their story. And the Elevator People, and the Stair People, had their places in it. It was about, not redemption, but a great and undignified scrambling crawl towards redemption, that would probably end with their feeble mortal bodies dead … but dead, at least, while facing in the right direction and with their outstretched hands clawing for the right thing.

  Ludi blinked as her senses reeled, circled, and settled back in their places. The story, the familiar old lizard at the base of her brain-stem, winked a jaundiced eye and curled back upon itself once more.

  She became aware that Paracelsus Hate was talking.

  “I will not linger here,” he said, “but will walk across the Sacred City to another pre-arranged landing site where I will return to the Flesh-Eater. But I wished to deliver in person our pledge of support and word of our progress. We are aware that there is too little communication between Earth and the Elevator, and we have a reputation for being standoffish.”

  “We appreciate you dropping by,” Magna said.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” Ludi offered. “We do a truly average Full Norman.”

  “I would rather starve,” Paracelsus said, but he was still smiling faintly and Ludi opted to interpret this as an example of dry Elevator humour. He inclined his head and turned in a small arc by way of extending the gesture to all four of them, and then strode back towards the warehouse doors. He stopped and looked back. “Oh,” he said, “and I have a message for you from Captain Bianchi,” he paused. “It would seem that a few hours ago, nine Category 9 Convoy Defence Platforms arrived in the Void,” he inclined his head once more. “I probably should have led with that information.”

  They stood in frozen panic as Paracelsus Hate hauled the warehouse door open, slipped out into the blazing morning sunlight, and let the door crash closed again behind him.

  “Elevator People,” Frogsalt declared, “are without doubt the most exasperating humans to ever have existed. And that,” she rounded on the TrollCagers and raised a little brown finger, “is up against some extremely stiff opposition.”

  IN THE PLAYGROUND OF THE GODS

  Declivitorion was a wild and practically uninhabited planet. There were tiny communities of assorted non-human species scattered across its continents and even in its bodies of water, but they had no interest in interacting with anyone – humans least of all.

  Greyblade suspected Çrom had had a boring few years. No sooner had the Flesh-Eater descended through the atmosphere and poked a silver-lined tongue into the yard of the human’s well-appointed little camp-slash-homestead, and Greyblade had stepped into the open doorway, than Çrom was standing at the bottom of the ramp with his arms folded.

  “Where the Hell have you been?” he demanded.

  Greyblade chuckled and descended the ramp. “I had a feeling you’d say that,” he said. “Sorry we kept you waiting. But your projections were spot on. Seven years, eight months, and no major incidents.”

  “Where’s the fleet?”

  Greyblade pointed up. “They’re circling the system in soft-space,” he said. “We figured it was best to keep things quiet, not let anyone find out. Well, anyone but the Destarion, apparently she became aware of them as soon as they were in the same Dimension together.”

  “Great,” Çrom said. “Can we maybe keep that family reunion from happening in orbit?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Greyblade said. “They have no interest in seeing her, and I think she’ll keep her distance,” he glanced back up the ramp. “It’s all clear,” he called.

  Arbus Rosedian, robust and grinning in his customary black plate-cloth, strode down the ramp and planted his booted feet in the dirt. He was carrying a massive squared-off case in his right hands.

  “Ahh,” he said, closing his eyes. “Does my old bones good to be back under a Corporate sky.”

  “Yeah,” Çrom said, and glanced at Greyblade. “It’s always nice to come back. What’s in the case, Arbus?”

  “Some spare parts,” Greyblade said. “A little bit … legally questionable, so maybe best not to ask about them right now.”

  Rosedian looked around. “I like your camp,” he approved. “Very … rustic.”

  “I’m thinking of staying here,” Çrom replied. “Except I’ve got one last little heist to pull. Not going to miss that.”

  “Where’s the Highwayman?” Greyblade asked.

  “Up in high orbit,” Çrom patted his pocket. “Got her on the comm, but orbit was the best place for her. I told you I didn’t want to bring her here. You can’t store a Fhaste under a suppressant tarp.”

  “How long did it take you to get back?” Greyblade cast an approving scan of his own around the camp. Food stores, shelters, a water reservoir. Sure, a lot of it was prefabricated stuff provided from kits, and the food was packaged long-life stuff, but it was a well set-up living space. Çrom was probably fortunate there were no large predators native to this landmass, but he’d constructed the site well enough to deal with most issues.

  “Long enough to get sick of this place,” Çrom admitted, recognising Greyblade’s examination. “Actually, sort of long enough to try sneaking back to Earth, which almost didn’t go well. Then long enough to get back here and get sick of it again.”

  “I thought there were settlements on this planet,” Rosedian said.

  “There were,” Çrom said, “back around when you were last in the Void. I found a couple of standing stones in the forest, and when I was digging out the fire pit I unearthed what I’m pretty sure was a pair of Áea birth blades. But there’s nobody within five hundred kilometres of here, and nothing more advanced than a comms satellite in orbit. Aside from the Highwayman, of course. And now a fleet of Godfangs swooping around in the grey.”

  “The planet looked pretty abandoned on the scans,” Greyblade admitted.

  Çrom grunted. “When there was even a hint that humans might start moving out here, most of the other species scattered deeper into the Playground. I’m talking ten thousand years ago or more.”

  “Good place for us to rendezvous,” Rosedian approved. He crossed to the fire pit and put the case down with a heavy thump and a moderate sigh of relief.

  “There are Ogres out here, you know,” Çrom said to Greyblade. “Smart Ogres, if you can imagine such a thing. More than smart – telepathic. Although the one I met just gave me a headache. They travel around in very suspicious-looking ships, keeping an eye on things. The one I met tried to teach me her tricks, but humans apparently don’t have the knack for it. Or possibly the lifespan. Very weird stuff,” he looked around. “So what happens next? Can we go?” he looked at the case askance. “Or are you setting up camp here too?”

  “We’ll be leaving soon,” Greyblade said. “As soon as everything is in place and we’ve established communication. I’ll make my way back down to Earth, and get the ball rolling. I actually–”

  “Is that a still?” Rosedian pointed.

  “A cheap, low-effort excuse for one,” Çrom said dismissively. “It basically just synthesises alcohol out of vegetable matter and then you add more water and different flavours or texture packs to make wine or grain spirits or beer or whatever. You want a glass?”

  “Yes,” Rosedian said firmly.

  “Not sure it’s as strong as that bollk you served up last time,” Çrom said, “but alright. One last drink. What’s the harm, eh?” he glanced at G
reyblade. “We in a big damn hurry all of a sudden?”

  “No,” Greyblade said, and raised his visor. “I could drink. But I don’t know about starting with the top shelf stuff. Did you find that Modarkan plum wine I asked for?”

  “By the powers, you know, I did,” Çrom said, and crossed to his prefabricated cabin. He vanished inside, there was the muffled sound of rummaging, and he emerged a short while later holding aloft a round, purple-black bottle by the neck. “Seventeenth Dynasty,” he said. “Actually a very fancy vintage. I won it on my way home through the Old Empire Dimensional corridor, in a game of chance with a particularly unpleasant Modarkan importer. I had to assuage its temper with a ride in the Highwayman.”

  “Well done,” Greyblade said, taking the bottle and uncorking it. “For you,” he added, taking a swig of the sweet, potent stuff and then passing it to Rosedian. “One of the many things you’ve missed since your departure.”

  Rosedian took the bottle, sipped, then grinned and took a deeper draught. “That is lovely.”

  “It’s a big favourite among Molren,” Greyblade agreed. “A bit sweet for my taste, but you process sugars differently.”

  “Tell me about your trip home,” Çrom urged. “Did they follow the route I gave you?”

  “More or less,” Greyblade said. They sat down on opposite sides of the fire pit, Rosedian enthusiastically drinking his Modarkan plum and occasionally passing it back to Greyblade. Çrom busied himself with the still. “Bit of a change of plans at the start. We didn’t head back in through the Nonsense Network. We continued outwards instead.”

  “Outwards?” Çrom looked up sharply. “What do you mean, ‘outwards’?”

  “Pretty much what it sounds like,” Greyblade replied. “We went out for a long stretch, another month according to the readings. And the sound – you know, the wind – got louder and the Portals became … tenebrous.”

  “Portals become tenebrous?” Çrom asked in fascination.

  “It was very strange,” Greyblade admitted. “I’d tell you more about it but to be honest most of my senses shut down. I remember a sort of point where it was impossible to tell if we were inside a Portal or flying through Dimensional space. Finally, we reached a sort of fault line, where a cascade of jumbled reality-signals rolled and repeated. I think it was possible to push past it and go further – there’s no actual end, obviously – but it would have destroyed our minds. We didn’t belong there,” he nodded at Rosedian.

  “We rode the cascade down,” Rosedian explained, “and emerged in a nexus Dimension. This was really rather exciting because we – and the Kernians before us, in fact – had theorised about the existence of such Dimensions. They’re a sort of function of reiterative space, like a catalogue of iterations. The only way into it was down the cascade, and the way out was one-way as well. A series of essentially ordinary Portals saw us back into normal Beyond the Walls Dimensions, but it was a Hell of a dive to get there. We had to stop for a couple of weeks – what was that place called, Greyblade? The giant transparent globe with the islands of black stone on the inner surface?”

  “Elatane,” Greyblade replied.

  “Elatane, yes,” Rosedian said, and pointed the neck of the bottle at him. “That was it. Interesting place. We stopped there for two weeks to reinitialise the platforms’ hulls. From scratch.”

  “It would have torn the Highwayman apart,” Greyblade said. Çrom came over with four mugs, the handles of two in each hand. He passed one to Rosedian, one to Greyblade, and emptied the third into the fire pit before sitting down with the fourth, setting the empty cup by his feet, and reaching into his pocket.

  “Watch your eyebrows,” he said, then smirked at them both. “Never mind.”

  He tossed an accelerant capsule into the pit. There was a soft whoomph and the pit blazed merrily, feasting on kindling and alcohol.

  “You’ve really been roughing it,” Greyblade noted.

  “Roughing it’s for suckers,” Çrom replied, and raised his mug.

  “Here’s to us,” Rosedian said heartily, raising the bottle of Modarkan plum in one right hand and his mug in the other. “Three old foes of the Lapgods and the dread Ghåålus, riding into battle one last time.”

  “Speak for yourselves,” Çrom said darkly. “I can see plenty more dumb pointless rides in my future.”

  “To the ride,” Greyblade declared, and lifted his own drink in salute.

  “The ride,” Rosedian agreed.

  “Havoc and war,” Çrom said quietly.

  They drank.

  SENTIMENT-BASED LAPSES

  IN TACTICAL JUDGEMENT

  It was several hours later.

  Çrom had become positively garrulous in the wake of their toasts, and in the joy of having company again after so long, and upon finishing his seventh mug of hard liquor. He opened up, and even related a few stories that he hadn’t shared with Greyblade on their long march out to Wyrm and beyond. Greyblade didn’t know if they were true. He’d come to realise it didn’t matter.

  The thoroughly inebriated human was relating a story about his time as a janitor in a place called Area 51, where he’d met a group of Molren who had been left behind by the Flutter and where he’d almost fallen afoul of Mercy the Demon, when he abruptly grew serious. Greyblade had a strong suspicion it was because he didn’t want to finish telling the story.

  “I think I was the only human who understood, you know.”

  “What’s that?” Greyblade asked.

  “When the veil was lifted, and the troubles were settled, people got so angry at the Pinians,” Çrom said. “For their neglect when the Dark Realms and the Imp attacked.”

  “That wasn’t precisely their fault,” Greyblade felt obligated to explain. “They were taken–”

  “Not just that. For their cowardice when they went human in the first place,” Çrom said. “Hid, let themselves forget they were Pinians. I was the only person who understood.”

  “Understood what?” Rosedian asked. His wine bottle lay empty beside the crate he’d brought down from the Flesh-Eater, and he was smiling happily into his cup of synthesised something-or-other.

  “They had a chance to love somebody,” Çrom replied, “and not outlive them. They had a chance to put down the burden. And they took it. If it had been me, I would have taken it. If it had been me, I would have fought the lifting of that veil with every scrap of my strength. As it was, it made no difference to my situation. But it’s not an opportunity I reckon Firstmades get very often,” he smiled humourlessly at Greyblade. “What do you think?”

  Greyblade shook his head. “I think that the Pinians cost the Four Realms millions of lives and centuries – millennia – of progress when they went into hiding,” he said. “And you don’t relinquish authority and responsibility for the chance to live a normal life and die a normal death,” he raised a hand. “But that,” he went on, “is a mortal perspective. And from a mortal who has had the luxury of choice programmed out of him.”

  “But not the luxury of judgement, perhaps,” Rosedian said mildly.

  “Judgement is an important part of tactical decision-making,” Greyblade said, deadpan. Rosedian barked a laugh. “The Pinians aren’t perfect beings,” he went on. “They’ve just been around longer. Being around since the dawn of time doesn’t make you better. It just … gives you time to make all the mistakes.”

  “So why don’t you tell me,” Çrom said, and gestured at the massive form of Rosedian. “Tell us. Why are you doing this? What are you doing? The truth. We’ve come this far. Are you really here to root out evil and save the world for your Pinian masters? Save humanity’s soul? Because I’m here to tell you there’s no such thing, Greyblade. Humanity doesn’t have a soul to save.”

  “You’re human,” Greyblade said. “Even after everything.”

  Çrom didn’t reply for a while. Rosedian, eyes bright with interest and his earrings gleaming in the firelight, sipped his drink, then set it on the top of the crate by his s
ide, and watched.

  When the human finally spoke, his voice was raw. “They say that to know love is to know fear,” he said. “But to fear love, Greyblade,” Çrom’s voice quavered. “To fear love is to know real torment. And to fear love for all eternity … that is damnation. That’s Nnal’s true punishment.”

  Sentiment, Greyblade thought.

  “A Burning Knight knows love, and fear,” he said. “They’re integral parts of the organic behavioural model. But they’re variables, factors. They’re not all-consuming dictators of the psyche, like they are in most species.”

  “One must occasionally bow to the whim of the dictator,” Rosedian philosophised. “That is the mortal condition,” he bowed his head to Çrom. “Your pardon.”

  Çrom cackled.

  “They’re all dead,” Greyblade said. “The Knights.”

  “What?” Çrom said, face suddenly slack.

  “Not many of us came out of storage in the first place,” Greyblade said. “The next generation is still in development. They’re still not certain the old formula can be repeated. Our numbers were always exaggerated, it was part of our psychological presence – each Burning Knight an army.”

  “Having only met one of you, I cannot but agree,” Rosedian said with a smile.

  “We … met with an enemy on an engagement,” Greyblade confessed. “One we’re not permitted to speak of.”

  Greyblade had always known his command would end. There, under that strange sky, on the whims of strange Gods, the end had come. But he had survived. That was not how it had been supposed to go. That was not what he’d been promised.

  “Greyblade?” Çrom said hesitantly.

  “By the time we were mobilised to fight in the Last War of Independence, there was only a handful of us left,” Greyblade murmured, “and a bunch of slapped-together half-baked drones. We could barely run the bitch. The Ladyhawk,” he explained to Rosedian. “I don’t think we could have made it turn out any better if we’d been at full strength. Maybe we could only have brought the Earth to an end faster. Maybe that would have been a mercy.”