Deeplight

  For a few moments, he stayed perfectly still, his ear pressed to the door. From within the office, he could hear a male voice speaking quietly and the sound of one or more people moving around. Hark could just about catch some of the words.

  ‘. . . sticking to the same story . . . claims she knew nothing about any . . . if we did, it might send a strong message to her gang . . .’

  This sounded rather ominous, but at least the new arrivals didn’t appear to be talking about him. However, they didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave either. He heard a scrape of chair legs, as if someone had pulled one up to sit.

  If they’re going to settle in for a good long chat, I need to find another way out of here, he thought.

  He looked around, blinking hard to acclimatize his eyes to the dark. A little light seeped in from eight small glass windows set in the roof, showing him a shadowy, cluttered room, far larger than the office, probably taking up the rest of the warehouse.

  There was a strong odour in the room, one that Hark recognized. It was the nerve-tingling, rotten, salty reek of Undersea water. There were other scents too: the vinegar tang of pickling, the smell of oil, and the queasy after-stink of scare-lamps.

  To the left, crates and casks were stacked against the wall, next to barrows and a couple of small dock cranes, their chains and hooks glinting dully. To the right, trestle tables were crowded with delicate silvery tools, bottles of brown and black liquids, and huge glass lenses clamped to marble countertops.

  In the centre, filling most of the room, was something huge and irregularly shaped, just visible behind a wall of sailcloth screens. Hark padded over, too curious to resist. Very carefully, he moved aside the nearest screen so that he could see through.

  The object within was twenty feet long. It lay upon a rough wooden platform, like the sort Hark had seen sometimes in a marketplace with fresh fish laid out on it. Catch of the day, thought Hark madly.

  It was a nightmare of chitin, iridescent glass, and pallid flesh, constructed with horribly meticulous symmetry. From its upper part jutted a dun-coloured tube filled with concentric rows of blunt teeth, like a lamprey’s mouth. Great, serrated claws with a mottled shell extended to either side, resting on iron supports. Wires and copper pipes glinted between plates of barnacle-studded armour. Pale sacs of fluid sagged against the thing’s flanks.

  At the centre of it, connected to a dozen snaking glass tubes, was a foot-wide grey slab of flesh with a dark, curling slit in its surface. It was the Hidden Lady’s gills.

  But . . . Vyne’s supposed to be working on a submarine! She said she was!

  Or had she? Now that Hark thought back, he couldn’t recall her ever using the word ‘submarine’.

  At last Hark understood why the Vigilance League had chosen an unpopular island for their new base. He understood why they had hidden their project away and defended it with armed sentries so that nobody knew what they were building. He knew why Vyne hadn’t wanted him or anyone else to come into the village.

  They weren’t working on a submarine. They weren’t making something for people to ride in at all.

  They were building a god.

  Hark was still staring mesmerized when the god-heart chose to beat.

  The dark slit of the gills suddenly closed and clenched. Yellow liquid surged through the surrounding glass tubes, drawn by a violent suction. A shudder passed through the shadowy hulk on the platform. Armour rattled. One great claw jerked clear of its support and fell to the stone floor with an echoing crash.

  Hark leaped backwards, blood banging in his ears. He could hear sounds of confusion and uproar in the office. As the adjoining door was thrown open, he darted into the little fort of screens. Through the sailcloth of the screens, he could see the brilliance of a purple scare-lamp.

  ‘There’s someone in there! I saw him! Over there!’

  Hark fled round the side of the great sprawled shape, hoping to hide behind it, but in vain. Running steps approached, and then several pairs of hands dragged away the screens and cast them aside. He was spotted, he was cornered, he was blinded by purple light. He was grabbed by the arms and hauled out of his corner into full view.

  ‘I’m supposed to be here!’ he shouted, deciding to give his last wild gambit a fair chance. ‘I’ve got a note from Dr Vyne! I’ll show you!’

  The two men who had seized him changed their hold so that he could reach into his belt pouch and pull out the note. When the third man stepped forward, Hark realized that it was the Leaguer captain he had met before. The captain stared at him in recognition, then snatched the paper out of Hark’s hand and read it with a frown.

  ‘Doctor,’ he called out, ‘do you have an explanation for this?’

  Dr Vyne walked into the room, holding a small bonesaw. The note was thrust into her hand, and her eyebrows rose.

  ‘You said I should come here if I had news!’ said Hark frantically.

  ‘I never said you should come right into the camp,’ Vyne pointed out without apparent anger. ‘In fact, I told you specifically not to do that. It’s a shame that you misremembered something so important. Your memory’s usually so good.’

  Hark could see her looking at him once again with her sceptical, analytical eye, and then noticing the scattered screens behind him, and the exposed monstrosity.

  ‘Oh, Hark,’ she said. ‘You really shouldn’t have seen that.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone!’ he said quickly. ‘You know I won’t!’

  She sighed and shook her head. No, said her smile. You won’t.

  Different people turned against you in different ways – Hark had always known that. Some did it angrily. Some did it calmly, or sadly, or coldly. And some, it turned out, wore a rueful, self-deprecating smile when they became your enemy.

  The smile faded as Vyne noticed that one of the great claws had fallen on to the stone floor. She scowled and strode over, then stooped to examine it, running a gentle finger over the claw’s armour in search of cracks.

  ‘Hark!’ she exclaimed accusingly. ‘What have you been doing to my god?’

  As if in reply, the god-heart pulsed once more. Again the gills convulsed, and drew in sickly gold liquid through glass veins. The hulk rocked and juddered. Wires broke free, and a metal band snapped loose, shooting a rivet across the room.

  Vyne turned to stare at Hark.

  ‘Search him!’ she shouted.

  Hark struggled as hard as he could, biting and kicking, as he was wrestled to the ground. All of Quest’s warnings about the heart returned vividly to his mind – the return of the gods, an eternity as the slaves of monsters. Far too late, Hark tried to smash the swaddled god-heart with his elbow. All was in vain. The captain pulled the sling out of Hark’s sleeve and tugged off the cloth. He held up the heart, peering at its perforations in bemusement.

  Vyne took it from him and handled it reverently, her eyes wide with undisguised hunger.

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘This is what that girl described!’ exclaimed the captain. ‘A white, pulsing ball of godware!’ He still looked suspicious, but he seemed to be catching some of Vyne’s enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s exactly what we’ve been looking for,’ whispered Vyne. ‘The “core” mentioned in the archive scrolls! A reverberator. A source of vibrations to imbue the rest with life, change, motion . . . and it’s active!’

  She walked over to her creation and peered at it intensely.

  ‘Look at this!’ Her smile was almost childlike in its brightness. ‘The gills have started to meld with the glass tubes I inserted! The reverberator is triggering mutations, just as I hoped! With this, we can get all the parts to accept each other!’

  She turned to Hark.

  ‘Where did you get this? How much do you know about it?’

  Hark stayed mulishly silent, and Dr Vyne’s smile faded.

  ‘Well, let’s see how it interacts with the rest.’ Hands shaking with excitement, the doctor leaned across the great construct and pulled wires loose f
rom a device resembling a tiny accordion. She removed the contraption and laid the heart in its place, nestled against the Hidden Lady’s gills.

  ‘Don’t!’ shouted Hark. ‘You’ll bring it to life!’

  ‘Well, I certainly hope so.’ Vyne began tethering the heart in place with wires and straps. ‘I had been tuning a special instrument in the hope of producing the right vibrations, but this is much, much better! With this at the centre, we might create a self-sustaining system. Now, come on, my beauty – give us another pulse . . .’

  A few seconds passed, and then the heart obeyed. Again the great hulking shape convulsed, but this time more violently. The armoured plates rose, as if the thing were drawing a breath, and for a moment Hark thought the whole nightmarish mass might slowly rear up. The next instant, it subsided with a chitin clatter and a groan of metal. A glass valve cracked. There was silence, except for the faint sound of ichor dripping on to the floor.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked the captain. ‘Why did it stop moving again? Why does it keep breaking things?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ snapped the doctor, who was hastily working to stop the ooze in the cracked flask from leaking away. ‘I’ll need to make the bonds stronger. And . . . I think we’ll need better-quality Undersea water to feed into the gills – a lot more of it too.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ yelled Hark.

  ‘I have a doctorate in practical theophysics!’ retorted Dr Vyne. ‘If anybody can understand this, it’s me!’ She pushed her hair out of her eyes with her forearm. ‘I will solve this, but I need to concentrate! Everyone out of here!’

  ‘What about the boy?’ asked the captain.

  ‘I’ll want to question him later,’ said Vyne, without looking up, ‘so don’t shoot him more than you have to.’

  She didn’t even glance at Hark as he was carried bodily out of the warehouse.

  Hark was manhandled through the village, still kicking out at anyone close enough. He was in a blind, vengeful, desperate rage now. Everything was lost, so he might as well cause as much damage as possible. He hardly felt the blows he received in return.

  Two men carried him to one of the wooden shacks. One of them lifted a heavy bolt and opened the door, and the other threw him inside. He lay on the floor, hearing the door slam behind him and the bolt drop back into place.

  Carefully he sat up, feeling his lip and cheek sting. Pain was fine; he didn’t mind pain. He deserved it. His mind was on fire.

  I wish I’d smashed the heart when Quest told me to. Or when I first thought about it, that night on the beach.

  But I didn’t. All of this is my fault. That heart was doing no harm where it was, lying on the seabed. But I brought it up with me and gave it to Jelt. If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened. Jelt wouldn’t be a monster. Those men he killed on Wildman’s Hammer would still be alive. Then I brought the heart here. And now Dr Vyne has what she needs to bring her home-made god to life, so that’s it. No more hope. Just an age of nightmares that never ends.

  There had been times in the past when Hark had felt stupid or worthless, but never before had he wished he could wipe himself off the surface of the world like an ugly smear. He wanted to be nothing. He wanted all his years of life not to have been. All he could do was sit there, numb with exhausted misery, hating himself.

  His skin tingled as though the eyes of an angry universe were fixed on him. It took him a while to realize that he was being stared at, but by someone rather smaller.

  The other figure was pressed against the back wall of the shack, perfectly still, her large, bright eyes wide and wary. A little light filtered in through a hole in the roof, allowing him to see her tied-back hair, angular features and mottled freckles.

  It was Selphin, alive but not as well as the last time he had seen her. She looked tired and drawn, her dark hair dank with neglect.

  ‘Selphin!’ exclaimed Hark in shock. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Selphin shook her head urgently, and threw a meaningful glance towards the door. However, Hark’s head was filling with a jumble of memories: the frantic search for Selphin; the mysterious armed men emerging from the shadows on Wildman’s Hammer.

  ‘You double-crossed us all!’ he hissed. ‘You—’

  Selphin scowled furiously and raised a finger to her lips. She grimaced, pointing to the door, and this time Hark understood. Perhaps the guards were listening in. He started to notice other details: the blanket rumpled on the floor, and the wooden plate and water jug nestling in a corner next to a chamber pot. Evidently Selphin was as much a prisoner as he was.

  I know you went to the League behind everyone’s backs, he signed. You told them about the relic so they’d attack us and take it!

  Selphin gave an angry little shrug and glared at him unapologetically.

  Nobody listened to me! she answered. I had to do something! I had to protect myself and my crew!

  Every inch of her was tensed. She was bracing herself for a fight, Hark could see that. Looking at her, however, Hark realized he had no fight to give her. He was acting out a remembered anger without really feeling it. All of his rage was turned on himself. He didn’t seem to have any spare for anyone else.

  I don’t care. He exhaled, and delivered the sign with an exhausted flick. I don’t care.

  When he continued to show no sign of hate-filled frenzy, Selphin gradually relaxed her battle-ready posture a little.

  How long have you been here? he asked.

  Four days, came the answer.

  It had been five days since he had last seen her, diving into the frenzied waves. If she had been a prisoner for four days, the rumoured sightings of her at the Pales must have been false.

  Why are you a prisoner? Hark signed. If Selphin had given the Vigilance League such a valuable tip, why had they locked her in a dark shack?

  The League didn’t trust me, replied Selphin, her signs bitter but matter-of-fact. They thought I might be sending them into a trap. They said they wanted to keep me prisoner until they had the relic, just to be sure. I said yes. Then your friend killed lots of them. The League decided it was a trap after all. They kept me for questioning. She shrugged and gestured around at her cramped prison.

  Hark wasn’t surprised by the Leaguers’ anger. They must have lost a dozen of their number that night.

  How are my crew? The signs tripped off Selphin’s hands as if she had been aching to ask this from the start. Her eyes were wide and concerned.

  She was probably worried that some of her gang had been caught up in the carnage on Wildman’s Hammer. Then why risk double-crossing everyone in the first place? Hark was about to give an acidic reply, when he remembered the way in which the attacking Leaguers had pulled their blows at first. Somehow she had persuaded a group of hardened fanatics that they didn’t want to rush in with their blades drawn. Maybe the rumours of Selphin in the Pales had been deliberately spread to make sure the smuggler gang were elsewhere looking for her.

  I don’t know, he replied. They’re safe as far as I know.

  Does your friend know I went to the League? asked Selphin, and Hark could see a glisten of fear in her eyes. Evidently she meant Jelt.

  No, he reassured her.

  Selphin chewed her lip, but continued looking steadily at Hark so he knew the conversation wasn’t over.

  What’s wrong with your friend? she signed at last.

  The relic, Hark began, then stopped himself. Everything, he signed instead.

  He could feel himself starting to shake, even though it wasn’t that cold. There was something hard in his throat, and it tasted like old metal. His lungs were tight and his joints felt loose and his eyes hurt. Something hot was leaking down his cheeks.

  Everything is wrong with my friend. Hark’s eyes blurred, and he could hardly make out his own signs. It isn’t the relic making him a monster. It’s him.

  Jelt . . . kills people.

  There it was, the truth at last. The only way was
forward.

  Jelt doesn’t have to, but sometimes he just does it. I don’t even know how long he’s been like that. Probably years. I’ve been trying not to know. I felt like, if I knew for certain, somebody would die. The old Jelt. My friend.

  He looked at Selphin, willing her to understand.

  My friend Jelt was amazing, he signed. But he’s gone. He’s been dead for years. All that’s left of him is in my memories.

  And there’s this other Jelt . . . Hark shook his head. He’s all I’ve got. He’s still my best friend – the only friend that matters . . . and I hate him. I hate him. I needed to save him. I needed him to be safe and alive and well, so I could walk away and never see him again.

  It was the impossibility of this that had descended upon Hark as he stood in the office with the grey book in his hands. He had realized suddenly that Jelt would never be safe and well enough for him to walk away. However hard he tried, he could never, ever save Jelt, because Jelt would never allow it.

  Hark wiped his face, feeling like his insides had been ripped out.

  I tried to save him, he signed. I came to steal some secret papers to make him better. I got caught. The League have the relic now.

  Good riddance, Selphin signed emphatically.

  No. Hark shook his head. It’s bad. Really bad. They’re doing dangerous things with the relic.

  So were you. Despite the barbed response, Selphin’s eyes seemed a little more sympathetic now.

  Worse things, said Hark, in no mood to argue. They could destroy everything.

  CHAPTER 34

  Hark stumbled through a quick explanation of Vyne’s work with the Vigilance League, the makeshift god twitching in the warehouse, and the doom of mankind. By the end, Selphin’s eyes were wide. She gave a small snort of incredulous laughter.

  You really did make a mess of things, she signed. Worse than me.

  Oddly enough, it made Hark feel slightly better. He had been expecting the smuggler girl to stare at him with fear and horror, as though he were a Jelt-like monster. Making ‘a mess of things’ seemed like the sort of mistake a human being might make.