Whoever had set up the weapon needed a path back to where they’d come from. A thread tied to a fixed point that unspooled as the weapon fell into place would serve that purpose. I raced with the thread in soft grasp. Corridors and turns evolved into more corridors and more turns. I could have easily been running in one tight circle, but the thread kept me going. I turned a corner and found myself in a room I recognised with a sick feeling about just how far out of my depth I really was. I had seen images of this room virtually every day that I had worked at the Historical Centre, I had guided tours through a reproduction carefully spouting guestimates about the role of the room in the history of the systems. It was the throne room of the empire, the room Empress Ingea had used as her command centre. It was the heart of the war and the most famous missing room in history.
When the Quill Alliance forces breached the Red Halls it was not just the Empress who was gone, the entire throne room was gone as well. The ornate desk made from granulated shiverwood that grew one tree at a time in the icy caverns of Despai. The oval conference table carved from the single largest gem ever pulled from the gravity well at the outer fringe of the systems. The twelve matching chairs made from the bones of the still unidentified energy bearing species that could not be successfully farmed and so were exterminated. Most of all was the throne itself where Ingea sat when she issued the orders for the destruction of Ranyor and the astounding strategic sweep that brought her to within a hairsbreadth of victory.
The throne was a mystery, there was no information about where it had come from, who made it or how they made it. There was speculation that the same artist who had created the picture that hung in the Historical Centre also created the throne. It was possible; it was an equal masterpiece of controlled magic. It was composed entirely of light, shimmering light that moved in hypnotic patters to compel awe and adoration of whoever was sitting in it. Petra was seated on it and I could feel the compulsion to bow and obey her engulf me.
Petra was wearing the same uniform that the Empress wore in the picture and on her head was a silver framework that held the firestone taken from the jewel box lying on the floor at her feet. Tied to the back of the chair with his head up so I could see the frozen ecstasy on his face above his slit throat was the Director of the Historical Centre. His blood had poured down the back of the chair and Petra was sitting in a pool of it. Petra saw me and I could feel the power inside her, amplified by the throne and the firestones, the force of her scream threw me out of the room and beyond the reach of the throne. “Daddy, help me”, the cry ignited the lifetime of held down rage that I had tried so hard to contain.
The Shoshone Circlet rippled and twist around my neck and I felt it ride my rage to fill every cell of my body. Stood up and blinked and my eyesight changed, I was seeing more than just the throne room now, I could see what was going on somewhere outside the room. Before the chair, a shape formed—a doorway like the entrance to the Red Halls. I could see through it, up a shiny path to a figure in the distance that appeared to be climbing down a ladder from the sun. There was no mistaking who was coming down that ladder, even at the distance I could recognize the figure from the image in the Historical Centre. Empress Ingea was returning to claim her Empire … or to destroy everything. She was going to slip into Petra like a stiletto and finish her long delayed plans.
The voice was deep, clear. “This won’t do.” The only lifeform who could have spoken was me and it was not my voice, not anything like my voice. I was sure that my vocal cords could not have produced that voice. It was coming from the Circlet. The voice spoke again making sounds I am sure were a language but I have no idea what they were. It was clear that it was a vocal charm, yet another impossibility for my list and a charm of terrifying power. My body was not intended to support the power that was flowing around it, I was dissolving in it like ice crystals in warm water. Then I was frozen and the power coursed through me without touching me. The Circlet need me to remain complete to serve its purposes.
A dragon filled the chamber and the Sickle Quadrant … it filled the combined systems. Gold, black, and silver patterned scales held writing on each. Translucent wings spread across bone crossbeams that fractured the light and shed rainbows. A long ferocious head held a square jaw and flaring nostrils that emitted dense white smoke. A long tail ended with upright spikes and six squat legs displayed needle-sharp talons arching from the toes. It was so big there was no way I could have seen more than an incomprehensible detail yet I could see it all and comprehend its appalling majesty. My brain refused to try and compute the problem and simply accepted what was in front of me. Dragons were the fever dream of FireDrakes.
“A dragon? Of all the fucking cli…” This was very much my own voice, I discovered that there was actually a limit to what I was willing to accept without a fight. I didn’t complete the sentence because I noticed it hadn’t seen me. The bright golden eyes, set in a ridge where the head joined the body, were focused elsewhere. I realized with a hammer blow of knowledge that there are predators in the far deeps of space, far beyond the furthest reaches of puny explorations. And delicious morsels like myself should not attract their attention.
The dragon snorted, flicked its talons, knocked silver framework onto the ground scattering the firestones. It disappeared, as did the doorway to wherever Empress Ingea had been hiding, waiting for faithful servants to call her home. The firestones by themselves weren’t enough to bridge a gap; they needed power from an autonomous energy-rich being, so they’d set about creating one. Such patient dedication was as frightening as the Sickle Quadrant itself, but I’d pissed in their faces. An energy bolt hit me between the shoulder blades and flung me forward, but the Running-Man shoes saved my balance, and I swung around to see what was attacking me.
I wasn’t surprised to find Philbean, his hideous face contorted with rage and shock. He’d been chosen as the first servant to greet the Empress upon her return, to serve as the footstool that she’d stand on to survey the new domain. I’d closed the door to that ambition and he was pretty upset—enough to forget how to win a fight. He merely wanted to smash me and hurled himself at me with that intention. Philbean was bigger, faster and much stronger than me, with sharp teeth and a powerful jaw; if he got close enough, he’d rip me to pieces.
Philbean slammed into me and we sailed across the chamber, slamming into the ground outside one of the entrances. His strong tail clutched my legs in a painful grip and his left arm pushed me down while his right hand yanked away his headdress so he could close in with that jaw. His mistake was to leave my arms free. All I had to reach was the arm he was holding me with and slap the pack against it. The mechanism worked and I jammed a needle into his flesh, injecting the payload into his blood and bone. Philbean had enough time to look surprised before the takeover was complete and he fell off me.
I righted myself with effort and went over to Petra, still tied and sporting a tiny smile. As I unbound her, she whispered into my ear. “I wasn’t afraid, because I knew you’d come.”
I didn’t confess that I was afraid enough for entire system populations; instead, I kissed her blood-smeared cheek. She hugged me tightly and I wanted to stay there in that warm embrace for eternity. There was more to do, and her mother would welcome a hug as well, so I ruffled her hair and smiled encouragingly. “I have to help the lifeform over there into this chair. Would you like to help?”
Petra nodded and slid an arm tightly around my waist as we walked over to Philbean. He’d curled up tightly, his tail pressed between his legs. He was surprising light for a large lifeform, a sign that the process was speedily advancing. We had no trouble lifting him and dragged him to the chair and, with a bit of effort, managed to place him in it with his tail hanging out behind. Carefully, I fastened him, making sure to put his head in the centre of the circle.
I picked up two firestones and pushed the others, along with the jewel box, between his feet. Philbean had to have used another portal to get here; there was no way
that the Empress was going to enter via a sewer, so it had be relatively easy to find. It was. Down the first entrance was a glowing carpet with swirling colours, the work of the same creator who’d created the picture in the Centre for the Promotion of Historical Knowledge. We stepped onto it … and into a large, beautifully furnished apartment that had a dizzying view over Mengchi.
It was a fitting spot for an Empress to arrive and survey her subjects unannounced before revealing her presence and their future. I sent Petra off the find the wet room and get cleaned up, and thought about revenge and justice. I rolled up the carpet and put it in the decomposer. It hurt to destroy such a beautiful work of art, but I needed to close the labyrinth door.
When I had (mistakenly) thought I could stop the pursuit of Asher and Petra with my death, I’d had a problem: how to remain dead beyond the reach of those who’d try to bring me back. It had to be clearly me who was dead, not a copy or a decoy. This was more difficult that it might seem—after thousands of years of bringing back the dead, or parts of the dead, increasingly smaller parts were required. Any tissue or blood from the deceased, sufficient enough to secure identification, could be used to recreate the whole body, which could then be “awoken”.
In particular, all bottle-born lifeforms had to be constructed, so this quantity of tissue or blood contained had to ensure prior knowledge of the deceased was available to be explored. As far as I knew, this was more uncertain for natural-born lifeforms. The problem I faced was that I needed to be identified, which required tissue or blood to be positive; it would then give my pursuers everything they wanted. Unless I had to poison that tissue or blood so it was valid for identification, but no one would want to develop it in any way. My blood had to be both information and a threat.
Which lead to the only possible solution: a creature that came from the Screaming Forest. No one knew if it existed before the forest, or if it was part of the transformation process. A parasite that slowly travelled in the arteries of the trees, devouring their hosts until they burst open, spraying seeds all around. In each sticky seed lay a new parasite, ready to feast and grow. They possessed too much potential to be ignored. I had no idea what was done to eventually extract them from the forest, only that it was successful.
They were examined, cultured, altered, mixed and bred until there was a weapon that could be pushed directly into a host; they’d multiply between heartbeats so they were in every part of the host. As bones and organs, the host became much lighter than they’d originally been. My pursuers would have seen the package sticking in my arm and known it for what it was.
Extracting a sample at a carefully managed distance would be possible, identifying me easy, and replicating me would simply be replication the parasites as well. They’d seal me up and carry me to the edges of the systems, and jettison me off into the depths of space to finally die.
That was the exquisite refinement added to the final mix: the host didn’t die, but lived with the agony of internal feasting that never killed. Death only came when another host entered range. The presence of a new donor caused the parasites to swarm and burst out of the host to take up residence elsewhere. In the depths of my guilt re deserting Asher and Petra, I’d thought I deserved the punishment of the unending life and agony I’d experience until, finally, I could no longer sustain the cloud and we all expired.
Philbean had been ready to sacrifice my daughter, waiting for someone to come so he could die, afraid that the next lifeform to come close would be the Empress, freed to enter the embrace of the cloud. I myself had always tried to avoid either revenge or justice; both were too cold, now I had embraced both and was glad to do so.
Petra arrived, looking lively, dressed in colorful robes. She looked clean and refreshed, and happy. We found a well-stocked kitchen and I organized a quick meal, which I ate while cleaning up. The wet room was on the same scale as the kitchen and I enjoyed the luxury. Collecting Petra, the two of us descended to the ground floor and made our way to the transport station. We went to the safe house Lincoln had recommended, because returning to her space was stupidly dangerous.
At the space, all was quiet, no warfare or combat to be seen or heard. I entered the code, had my eye scanned, and the door opened.
Strolling in, I spun and extended my arms. “Honey, we are officially home.”
Dear reader,
We hope you enjoyed reading Bottle Born Blues. Please take a moment to leave a review in Amazon, even if it's a short one. Your opinion is important to us.
Discover more books by Conor H. Carton at https://www.nextchapter.pub/authors/conor-h-carton
Want to know when one of our books is free or discounted for Kindle? Join the newsletter at http://eepurl.com/bqqB3H
Best regards,
Conor H. Carton and the Next Chapter Team
Author Bio
Conor Carton has a lifelong ambition: to be the greatest space pirate cowboy outlaw wizard in the universe!
Writing is part of the rigorous mental and physical preparation he is undergoing to achieve this goal. In the meanwhile, he’s an Irish middle-aged suburbanite who has been married to the same wonderfully understanding woman for decades and has a daughter he adores.
You might also like
Glad You're Born by Scott Michael Decker
Click here to read the first chapter for free
Bottle Born Blues Page 22
