Lightmaker

by Kevin Elliott

  New icons flashed on her suit, shimmers of messages she couldn’t understand, but speed meant a morsel of control. Stumpy elm trees and rambling thickets drifted past, and broken stone ruins dotted the landscape. A cone of dirty cloud, like an upside-down mountain, billowed far around the bowl’s curve; sheets of dust laced with dark green streaks curled through the air, and she imagined tumbling hedges. White spray spouted from the cone’s centre before collapsing back like a fountain’s jets.

  Mitch pointed. ‘I said those gravity blockers can break.’

  Phos nodded.

  Pain shredded her spine without warning. The threads she’d woven through their boat snapped, and too late she sensed a tear ripping across the boat’s hull. Their craft tilted left and skidded from the back as the pillar ripped itself from her hands. She crashed against the floor, and her suit stiffened into a rigid shell. Two crates smacked into her as they stuttered to a halt.

  Had Rastersen’s mind wormed its way here? Phos gasped for air; each breath brought him and his hands closer. She tried to sit up, but her suit clamped fast around her limbs: a cage, a prison.

  ***

  Phos’s body sprawled belly down by the boat’s pillar, and her palms pressed against the boat’s tilted deck. Mitch tended to Frinelia; sweat beaded over the priestess’s ashen face.

  ‘You all right there, Frinelia?’ Caliper asked.

  A single nod. Phos’s head bobbled, but her limbs hadn’t shifted. Caliper shuffled her way and fought the sloped deck by fixing his gaze on the grass plain surrounding their mangled boat. Grey cloud seethed above to cap their bowl as the single spire loomed ahead.

  ‘Can you hear me, Phos?’

  The girl’s limbs rocked and her suit fabric flexed, but he heard nothing. Caliper stepped over her legs and knelt before sliding his hands under her chest to flip her over. Her face appeared, a flushed mask of panic, and her lips moved without words.

  ‘Phos…what’s the…?’

  She blinked; her head shook; her limbs struggled against the rigid suit; sweat plastered her coppery hair against her skin.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Mitch’s voice warbled with panic.

  ‘There’s no telling: I can’t hear her words. The boat’s damaged, so let’s take her to the ground.’

  The sloping deck twisted his muscles, but he hefted her body into his arms and staggered upright to inch down the slope. Phos’s outstretched arms and legs left him fighting for grip, but Mitch took Phos’s feet and helped Caliper slide her body onto a dusty patch of earth, and she stopped struggling.

  Caliper sat beside her helmet, and Phos stared back; she’d stopped trying to talk.

  ‘Can I get tools from the boat?’

  ‘Hold back a while, Mitch.’

  Frinelia stared from the deck. ‘What better weapon than one that paralyses distant enemies?’

  ‘Is this Rastersen’s work?’

  ‘It has his stink; he fantasised about taking prisoners.’

  ‘Can we block his tentacles, whatever they are?’

  Phos’s eyes darted to one side and her fingers trembled, and Caliper found himself clutching her hand as his helmet crackled.

  ‘Caliper?’ Noise blurred her voice.

  ‘Phos, you can talk?’

  ‘Speaking this way is difficult – it’s meant for emergencies. Something jammed my suit, stuffed it full of cords.’

  ‘So you can’t move?’

  ‘They’re getting tighter. I’ve prodded the suit, and there’re a few exploits I can use.’

  ‘On your suit? You’re using exploits on your suit? You need it to breathe….’

  ‘Try stepping back,’ Phos said.

  ‘If you don’t make it, there’s no point in me moving.’

  ‘Rastersen’s not left me much. He knows how our suits are built, but the builders added a few exploits late on, and those still work. I’m serious about you stepping back.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Caliper squeezed her fingers, and an image of coiling emerald cords seeped into his mind. ‘We won’t have the talking.’

  ‘Six or seven paces. I’ll wave when it’s done.’

  Caliper paused before releasing her hand and backing away. The soil rippled underneath her. Tiny waves flitted over the sand, and the surrounding blades of fine grass sank into the soil. Her suit fabric turned silvery for a heartbeat before worms of ochre dirt corkscrewed from the earth to snake over her chest, and the swelling earth pushed her up a few inches.

  Frinelia’s voice slid into his helmet. ‘Is Phos doing this?’

  ‘She’s trying to free her suit.’

  The ground calmed; the soil snakes dissolved into powder, and Phos’s hand twitched. Caliper loped forward.

  ‘Not enough,’ Phos said. ‘I’ve one exploit left, but it’s risky.’

  ‘How risky?’

  Phos’s eyes watered. ‘This exploit examines and resets the suit, but you’re not supposed to wear the suit when it happens. I won’t be able to breathe while it’s working, but it might clear Rastersen’s cords.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Get back, Caliper. Get right back, and don’t ask if I’m sure.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘If I could throw mud….’

  He released her and his helmet fell silent. Caliper trudged back to the boat and steadied his breathing before running his hands over the gouges exposed in the boat’s hull. Mitch scrabbled at the boat’s pillar.

  Frinelia reached for his shoulder. ‘What’s she planning?’

  ‘Something needing space. What does reset mean?’

  ‘She shouldn’t….’

  Ground trembled underfoot. He swung around, but his vision blurred. A flickering duplicate of Phos’s spread-eagled suit stood upright above her as a ghostly crimson light brewed around the image.

  Mitch stood. ‘Which is the real Phos?’

  ‘She’s still on the earth – the picture is standing.’

  ‘Who’d want her picture?’

  ‘I recognise the light: our healing machines spew it everywhere,’ Frinelia said.

  Searing white seams ringed the knees and elbows, and a flash of violet light sent Caliper staggering back against the boat, but he shielded his eyes and squinted.

  The suited vision had vanished, and now a hairless red-tinged mannequin stood above Phos’s motionless body. Bundles of packed maroon fibres suggested slabs of flesh, and eyes bulged from their sockets as the limbs twitched.

  ‘I’ve seen this image; it’s the human body without a skin,’ Frinelia said.

  Caliper stared. ‘Phos’s body? What are they…?’

  ‘Someone’s studying her.’

  ‘She’s even uglier on the inside,’ Mitch said.

  Another purple blaze stung Caliper’s eyeballs, but now a skeleton glowed above Phos’s feet, and the skull and ribs jostled as if trying to escape. Meaningless scribbles and lines flickered beside the ghost before the vision faded.

  Only Phos left now, still splayed on the earth, and beyond her body the grass stalks waved in the breeze he couldn’t feel. Two elm trees scratched the air in the near distance, and far off the spire seemed to watch them.

  Caliper darted forward and plucked Phos’s hand from the soil. Sweat drenched the girl’s face and she gasped, but her eyes opened.

  ‘I had it wrong, Caliper. It didn’t work. The suit uses the same word for itself and our bodies. I thought the exploit would examine the suit.’

  ‘But it looked at you – unpleasant for everyone.’

  Phos thrashed her limbs but the suit only rocked. ‘This taught me some builder words, but my skin burns like stink. I don’t know any other exploits, and that priest’s coming.’

  ‘We’re here for you. Can Mitch drive the boat?’

  ‘I’m trying but the boat won’t answer,’ Mitch said.

  Phos’s mouth opened but closed again as tears pooled in her eyes.

  Caliper let his helmet hover a few inches above hers. ‘If the priest sends you trouble, it proves th
e suits talk to each other. Will you hold that thought, Phos?’

  ‘Talk?’

  ‘Remember the iron leaves we scrubbed away? Yesterday we worked together, so let me look inside your suit.’

  Phos winced. ‘Don’t, Caliper. Rastersen’s cords want to spread, and they’ll infect you.’

  ‘There’s one plus of you being bundled up, Phos – there’s no taking your orders.’

  Caliper released her fingers, and her hand flapped for his, but he gripped her shoulders and closed his eyes before pushing his threads into her suit. The priest’s invasion had forced bundles of emerald cords through her fabric, and the enemy braids reared up like a cat spotting a mouse as his threads eased forward. Phos’s limbs writhed under the choking cords, he felt her choking, and her pain ripped a blood-red scar into his mind. Each foreign rope came from a knot of pulsing energy squatting in Phos’s chest piece.

  Caliper thrust his filaments forward. The green braids snapped back, but enough of his threads reached the central knot, and he jabbed memories of winter ice through his fingers.

  Phos’s bindings shattered, and fragments of Rastersen’s cords swarmed through his gloves and into his own suit to cluster around his wrists and elbows. His arms locked solid, but Phos stirred. She sat, and her hands gripped his wrists to thrust fire through his suit. The invading green braids writhed and charred into soot.

  Caliper’s eyes snapped open as the girl smiled back. She heaved herself to the side before gingerly pushing herself onto her feet.

  ‘I owe you, Caliper; I was wrong to doubt.’

  ‘We’ll have to manage your scampering now, won’t we?’

  Phos glanced at the boat and the gouges ripping through its hull. She teetered forward as if learning to walk again, and her hands brushed against the boat’s rough scars.

  ‘We have to manage Rastersen as well. He’s learning faster than us.’

  Chapter 23: the wrong-colour answers

  Soil crunched under Phos’s boots as she craned her neck back. The birds drifted around Mitch’s spire, and her helmet painted brilliant red rings over the trunk. Standing grey stones circled the spire’s base like a necklace, and olive-coloured creepers bunched around the trunk.

  Their boat still tilted. The powdery earth gripped the broken hull, and Phos remembered the moments before their crash: supple fingers of thought had curled into her threads to topple their craft.

  ‘Rastersen’s learned about the boats, so did Morzenthal’s books mention them?’

  Frinelia sank back on the boat’s benches. ‘Pretending to be a priest is hard, and I only won the full cloak four years ago. I’ve only read our most notorious works, but there are rumours of guidebooks. He’s only had a day’s reading, so perhaps we worry too much.’

  ‘But his parents had longer.’ Phos paused. ‘I expect they denied him nothing.’

  Caliper peered upward. ‘We have bird-shaped friends – is your suit calling?’

  Phos followed Caliper’s gaze; thirty birds circled above, like teachers watching pupils, and her helmet coated the tower with golden flecks. Mitch darted towards the spire.

  ‘Where you going, boy?’ called Caliper.

  ‘Watch him, will you? I’d order him back, but we should examine the boat.’

  Phos ran her hands over the ragged crevices Rastersen’s thoughts had torn into the hull. The sand underfoot twitched and rose into the air. She told the grains to fill the gouges, but her boat wasn’t listening, and the new sand fell back.

  ‘Rastersen’s serious about meeting: he’s locked our boat into a new design, one that won’t move.’

  ‘Can you make a fresh boat?’

  Phos grimaced. ‘Yes, but he’ll know I’m building, and he’ll interfere.’

  ‘Can you learn what he’s doing and fight back?’

  ‘I can find out where he is, but that won’t help.’

  Caliper shifted his feet and gazed at the spire’s base. ‘We should see your fat boy Rastersen at work. Ever use the henges back home?’

  ‘What do you mean, use?’

  ‘So you’ve not used them. They’re more than stones; they’re houses for exploits.’

  Phos blushed. ‘What sort of exploits?’

  ‘All sorts. There’s one that shoves your vision ahead of your body. Takes practice, but it’s your man for watching priests. But exploits here are fierce, so we tread slow and careful.’

  Mitch’s breathing wheezed through her helmet. Phos turned to see him approach the spire and pick his way around crumbling brown slabs of tilted earth.

  ‘Stay close, Mitch, and watch those birds.’

  ‘These stones match those near Ferstus,’ Mitch said.

  ‘Wait for me, boy, and keep your paws off them stones.’ The miller cantered to the spire with clenched fists. ‘The henge stunned me last time, but if Rastersen’s boatbuilding, we’ll not want the waiting.’

  Phos followed. The spire loomed overhead and reeked of strength and age. The ground at its base made a crazed jumble of broken earth. Mitch reached up to unfurl a creeper from the spire.

  ‘Don’t upset those birds.’ Caliper lumbered over the broken ground towards the nearest standing stone. She imagined the immense spire tipping over to crush them, but she focused on the stones, weathered slabs twice Caliper’s height and daubed with moss.

  Phos scurried beside him. ‘Need help?’

  ‘Are you fine back there, Frinelia?’

  ‘I’ll survive – you chat with the stones.’

  They reached the stone, and Caliper’s fingers brushed the rock, but he snatched his hand back.

  ‘What’s the sensation?’

  ‘It’s more like remembering a dream, but squeeze your mind and you can nudge yourself somewhere new.’ Caliper flapped his hand through the air as if shaking away pain. ‘Can you show me your man’s whereabouts?’

  Phos tugged a crystal slate from air. The four dots had travelled further than she’d expected: four yellow spots hovered in a dark field of green near their house. Phos spread her hands, and the image swelled to show both Rastersen and themselves.

  ‘Grand.’ Caliper faced the way they’d come. ‘I’ll work myself there and learn what’s playing.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I can’t carry you on my back: exploits don’t work that way.’

  ‘We know these suits talk, and two can carry more than one. Remember the metal ivy.’

  ‘We do that and there’s double danger – what if we’re both knocked out when Rastersen shows his arse?’

  Phos pointed at the grey slab. ‘How do these stones work?’

  Caliper sighed. ‘Your mind’s still growing, so I can’t let you play here.’

  ‘We’ve shared everything so far, and if I can take pain off you, I will.’

  ‘And you’ll be having the learning, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll help. Our suits can divide the sensation, so send a quarter my way – a tenth or whatever. It’ll ease our path while I study.’

  ‘Our talking always ends with you having your way, Phos, and why’s that?’

  ‘Must be my radiant smile. At least show me how you start with the stones.’

  Caliper shook his head and paused. ‘Imagine there’s a mind waiting inside the stone; you can have the talking without bothering about words, and you can borrow its eyes. Don’t knock me off course, and don’t cut your own path.’

  ‘Do we hold hands?’

  ‘I reckon so, but I’ve never taken passengers.’

  ‘It’s all about testing,’ Phos said.

  Caliper tried to run his hand through his beard, but his hand struck glass. ‘Stay calm and look ahead, and avoid new buildings – they’ll rip your mind apart. Expect trouble too: my first time with the stones left me fierce sick.’

  Frinelia coughed. ‘Be careful, Phos. That’s Caliper, not a thing. We only have one Caliper.’

  The miller breathed in before slapping his hand against the mossy stone, and Phos offered her l
eft palm as a gloved invite. His fingers wrapped hers; his eyes closed; and after a few heartbeats her vision faded to grey as Caliper’s slow breathing echoed through her body. Did she taste regret as well? Did Christina’s words still roll through his mind?

  Her stomach churned and sweat beaded on her forehead as blackness swallowed her world. Now a hundred hands seemed to hoist her into the air and buffet her body into motion. Phos’s vision returned; two figures in white suits held hands before a standing stone. Again hands wheeled her around, and her vision blurred before settling into a steady ramble: grass hurtled beneath; there stood the scratch their boat had etched into the parched soil. Caliper carried her vision ten feet above the earth. An urge for speed nipped at her, but words wouldn’t come. Hedges appeared ahead and rushed below in a smear of dark green as their path banked to their left.

  More elm and oak trees dashed past before their hurtling juddered to a stop. Four men wrapped in glinting suits of red metal stood at the far end of a field, and three blue-feathered birds hovered above their heads. A rip laced through the landscape beyond the men, a torn page where land flickered against air, and she tasted blood as fear infected her mind. Was Caliper struggling? Phos tried backing off, but the exploit nailed her vision into place.

  The red-coated figures jerked like stiff-limbed dolls. Their helmets were metallic globes clutching a curved glass window. Four men: one pointed while three squatted to glide their hands over earth. Rastersen’s orders greased the air.

  Pain lanced through Phos as the flickering rip grew. One man waddled forward, and coloured shards tainted his helmet window as his arms hacked the air – an order to tiny machines.

  Caliper’s temper rang out as a bitter tang of frustration tinged with loss, but in one heartbeat, his mood changed into a wordless fury mixed with a needle-sharp aim: a plan. Dirty sand boiled around the leader, and he toppled sideways before flailing at the soil. One bird landed beside Rastersen to claw his neck, and another swooped to slam into a stooping worker and rake a squall of coloured talons across his back. The last bird thrashed its wings and rushed straight at Phos’s viewpoint, and the flickering rip raced towards them. Jumbled shadows of cubes and pyramids surrounded her before blackness smothered her world.