Shards of Earth

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  The prancing Hiver major-domo stood beside the throne, as fancy as ever. Their two-faced head was turned to suggest the next few moments would involve more tragedy than comedy. Within their latticed body, insect-like elements chased one another around its core.

  “Have you redeemed yourself, my wayward son?” their bell tones chimed, as they took a birdlike step towards Mesmon. “Or have your failures bowed your borrowed back, so that you lose all use to the Unspeakable?”

  “See for yourself,” Mesmon growled, plainly not fond of being the butt of the thing’s odd wit. He gave an angry gesture, and the man with the case marched forward, presenting it for the Hiver’s inspection. The creature made no attempt to open the case, but their head tilted a little, as though listening. On its floating throne, Aklu made a flurry of sharp gestures.

  “Oh, Mesmon, once again you disappoint.” The Hiver took a step sideways, arms unfolding a pair at a time into a whole family of open-handed poses. The man who’d carried the case fell sideways and a gout of blood shot along the iridescent floor. It didn’t pool or flow in any one direction but separated out into individual tendrils, forming curlicues and arabesques of dark red. Kris blinked. She’d not even seen the Hiver with a blade, but one of those formal gestures had signified murder.

  The case fell from nerveless hands and broke open when it hit the floor. It was empty.

  Mesmon let out a grunt. It was a remarkably small sound really, to contain the vast amount of rage visible on his face. Then he was lunging for them and Kris knew he was going to rip someone’s head off their shoulders. And that was just for starters.

  Solace tried to get in his way and took an elbow to the temple that sent her tumbling aside. Even as she fell, Olli rammed her walking frame into Mesmon’s groin. It didn’t seem to inconvenience him much; apparently those parts were as resilient as all the rest of him. With a snarl of frustration he reached down and just picked up the entire frame, its legs kicking madly, about to dash Olli and her conveyance to pieces on the floor.

  “Hold,” the Hiver said. “Stay your hand.” They had taken one more step, and Aklu’s couch shifted too, the Essiel’s several eyes craning.

  “It may well come to pass,” the Hiver continued carefully, as though working extra hard to translate the gestures and rumbles of their master, “that we shall have our fill of broken bones. That truth must be extracted from these few like corks from bottles: in we drive the point, and out the rush of ruptured fluid comes. Not yet, not this one, cousin that she is. The Hook admires her.”

  Mesmon replaced Olli and stepped back. His expression suggested his bloodlust was undiminished. For her part, the specialist looked more alarmed at Aklu’s forbearance than at the violence. Cousin?

  “The wreck of the Oumaru is not here,” the Hiver tolled. “Our sacred relics likewise are astray. To take the knot of any of their lives, and pull it taut, might be to cut the string that leads us to our treasure, might it not? They shall give up the one who knows, and know that if they fail then we shall start with toes, with fingers, faces, eyes and all the parts a man may part with long before he dies.”

  One of the gilded thing’s gestures apparently included a command, because the guards were closing in. Mesmon’s purpling face hovered around the outskirts, as though he wouldn’t trust himself to stay his hand if within arm’s reach of them again. Then a grinding rumble came from the throne like the shifting of tectonic plates. Everyone froze, glancing at the golden Hiver for translation.

  The major-domo took a half-step back. Six arms made an elaborate genuflection that indicated Olli, Aklu and the space between them.

  “Approach,” it intoned, “O favoured one.”

  Olli sent Kris a wild look, but all eyes were on her. She manoeuvred the walker frame, stepping cautiously out of the ring of thugs until she was level with the Hiver. Aklu’s eyes twitched and shifted position, examining her as its pipe-thin arms flicked and flurried.

  “You, we will save till last,” the major-domo said softly, barely audible to Kris. “For we approve of those born bound who yet refuse to be.”

  Olli swallowed and nodded, leaning back in her frame as she stared up at the Unspeakable. She was stared at in turn.

  Then it was evidently time to go. And while the guards laid hands on everyone else, Olli got to walk unescorted. Kris wondered, in fact, what would have happened if she’d just stayed in the throne room. Had the whole thing been a veiled attempt at recruitment?

  *

  She’d been expecting to be dumped in the hold, but the Broken Harvest apparently took prisoners often enough to have dedicated facilities. These were spherical rooms budding off a central hub at different angles and heights—a bunch of grapes in negative. The captives were prodded into a cluster of adjoining cells sealed with energy barriers: Solace first, then Kris, Kit and Trine. Finally, Olli was allowed to choose her residence of the moment, still being treated with baffled respect by the guards. As soon as Aklu’s people had gone, she burst out, “I’m not a Hegemonic! Or a gangster! I’m not their plant!”

  “Nobody thinks you are,” Kris said, although she’d had a moment’s unworthy suspicion.

  “I don’t know what they want from me,” Olli went on, sounding almost frantic. “These fucking Essiel are crazy. And this one’s crazy even for an Essiel, right?”

  “Wait,” Solace snapped. Olli glowered at her, though not without a touch of gratitude for having something comprehensible on which to focus her ire. “Trine,” the Partheni went on. “Static.”

  “Ugh,” the Hiver archaeologist said, a buzzing grunt from within their casing. “Really?”

  “Just do it.”

  Trine’s face displayed a burlesque of petulance as they started putting out a sound like a dentist’s drill at the very edge of hearing. Kris’s teeth twinged at the sound—more the feel—of it.

  Olli doubtless wanted to make some caustic comment about things being bad enough already, but she was a professional at heart. “Blocker?” she asked cautiously.

  “My fellow incarcerates, electronic listening devices are now having a very bad day.” Trine’s voice rose like clashing music from within that tooth-jarring sound. “Pass comment upon our captors all you wish.”

  “What do we say about Idris?” Kris put in quickly. “Olli, you’re not with them, fine, we get that. But Idris… He’s still on the Vulture, unless they brought him out separately. What if they jettison the ship or something?”

  “On the other hand, if they don’t know he’s there, maybe that’ll work for us,” Olli suggested.

  “Rescue mounted by Idris resurgent?” Kit piped up. His screens were grey, fuzzing with vague patterns that seemed to echo Trine’s low buzz. “Unconvincing. Further priorities are suggested. Where are the coveted objects now, please?”

  “Ah, the… things, yes.” Kris agreed. Despite Trine’s alleged cover, speaking of the Originator regalia openly still seemed difficult. “They’ll be searching the Vulture from top to bottom right now, I guess. They’ll find Idris anyway.”

  “Great consideration towards the potency of such objects removed from their resting place. Is that not the point?” Kit pressed.

  “Fuck, he’s right,” Olli agreed. “You can’t just pocket the damn things. So did they just… fall out of the crate or something? Who had them last?”

  One by one they all ended up looking at Trine.

  “Analysis continues. Kindly remove such accusatory expressions from your features, my fellow stalwarts, old friends and new,” the Hiver said.

  “Trine,” Solace said warningly.

  “I cannot imagine under what circumstances this suspicion has come to fall on me,” they protested.

  “Wait…” Olli looked between them. “You… were stealing the things? Like, from us?”

  “That is an entirely unwarranted suggestion,” Trine said weakly. “However, someone must think of the benefit to science of such irreplaceable objects. They must not simply be sold to the highest bidde
r. Fellow cognoscenti, I am sure you appreciate this.”

  From their expressions, nobody seemed to appreciate it. Not even Solace.

  “Objects where precisely? Elaborate please,” Kit asked urgently. “Life-death level of import hangs on this.”

  “Science demurs,” Trine told them flatly.

  “Science will not stop them from taking you from your frame, and murdering you piece by piece,” Solace snapped. “Trine, will you just—”

  The Hiver pointedly turned their face off, and stopped the juddering hum. Presumably this made any further conversation vulnerable to outside surveillance. Everyone lapsed into silence.

  They heard movement, on and off; the business of the ship going on about them. Even gangsters needed maintenance crews and duty rosters, Kris supposed. But every sound raised the spectre of Mesmon and the guards coming to haul them all out, or maybe just one of them, never to be seen again. If Solace was expecting some grand Partheni cavalry charge, that didn’t seem to be happening. The Harvest hadn’t dropped back into unspace and tortured them all that way, that was the only positive. Presumably Aklu wanted to secure his toys first.

  Then they had a visitor. She heard the sound of sandals scuffing at the rounded floors and straightened up, hissing at the others. Someone came into their suite of cells, garbed in bright red and purple. Kris had to blink at this vision in Hegemonic livery a few times, before quite accepting he was there.

  It was Sathiel, the hierograve from Lung-Crow—just as mild and avuncular as before. A handful of cultists clustered at the doorway, possibly keeping Aklu’s people out and giving their leader privacy. Unless…

  “You were working with it all this time?” she demanded. “You and Aklu?”

  Sathiel shook his head. “I’m afraid not, or we would be meeting in more comfortable circumstances. When your captain and I made our contract to free the Oumaru and your ship I had no idea the Unspeakable was involved. My people died too, when the Hook stole the Vulture.” He sighed, shaking his head. “It’s all very distressing.”

  “How are you even here?” Olli demanded. The others were just watching, waiting to see whether this might be their break, somehow.

  “A diplomatic courtesy,” Sathiel explained. “The Hegemony has many formalities that may seem curious to outsiders.”

  “But Aklu isn’t in the Hegemony any more, right? It’s gone rogue. Isn’t that the point of the whole ‘Unspeakable Razor’ thing?” the specialist pressed.

  “Ah, well…” said Sathiel, and Kris knew a lecturing tone when she heard one. “The mistake is to characterize Hegemonic systems as if they were human ones. The Essiel have been ruling a vast and diverse empire for centuries. They have persisted because they have a system for everything. That is how they work. They prefer not to have to react. Instead, they foresee. This applies even to aberrations within their own species. Perhaps some of you are students of religion?”

  “Among other things,” Trine put in, sounding mulish. “Who is this greybeard and what relevance has he to our predicament?”

  “Many religions have an antagonist figure, a Devil, or perhaps a whole class of demons whose job it is to tempt and torment us poor mortals,” Sathiel explained, speaking over Trine. “And yet, these adversaries remain part of the system they mock. They act as an example of what not to do, a foil to higher powers. As such, Aklu has a place within the Hegemonic firmament. So, when the Razor and the Hook comes to a system, it announces its arrival to any Hegemonic presence there. Which in this case is myself, here to represent my masters in the negotiations regarding the Architects’ return.”

  “You’ve gone up in the world then,” Kris noted acidly.

  “A sign of the times,” Sathiel agreed. “However, all to your benefit, as I may be able to help. Under normal circumstances, your position here would be bleak. You’ve taken something belonging to the Unspeakable. Examples would be made. But perhaps I can intercede, as one part of the Hegemonic system to another. For old times’ sake. You’d have to return the regalia, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” said Kris, with a venomous look at Trine, who contrived not to notice her.

  “Specify your rates and remuneration, please,” Kit piped up.

  “Ah, well.” Sathiel spread his hands benevolently. “As you might imagine, what should be talks focused on the Architects’ return have degenerated. The Council of Human Interests and the Parthenon are engaged in mutual finger pointing.” He sighed. “We need something to refocus them on the truly important things.”

  “You want the Oumaru,” Kris divined.

  “I’m sure you’ve done the sensible thing and hidden it,” Sathiel said. “A very wise precaution. However, if it was retrieved by my people and displayed above Berlenhof, the great powers might just abandon their brinkmanship. Then we can start dealing with the key issues at stake.”

  “And that’s your price for putting a word in?” Olli asked.

  “I regret the necessity of being so mercenary, but yes,” Sathiel agreed. “Millions, billions of lives are at stake, and I have a sacred duty.”

  “We’ll think about it,” the specialist said.

  “Olli—” Kris started.

  “I said we’ll think about it, discuss it maybe, free and frank exchange of views.”

  Sathiel sighed. “I will be called before Aklu shortly, to reaffirm the disdain and rejection of the Hegemony towards the Unspeakable,” he said. “There are proper diplomatic and ceremonial forms to these things, you understand. I will suggest you be brought out to witness this, and then most likely Aklu will make a start on you. You are aware, of course, that a great deal of Essiel cultural form is coloured by their early contact with the Architects. By which I mean that the proper behaviour of the Unspeakable is to make ruin an art form. Please let me help you.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Olli repeated firmly, and just stared at the man until he’d taken his cultists and gone.

  “Well we could do worse,” Kris said, after Trine had reluctantly reinstated their jamming field.

  “Question as regards the credibility of his contractual consideration,” Kit’s translator spat emphatically.

  “Yeah, I reckon all the help we’d get from that quarter is a little hand-wringing and a ‘Well I asked him not to torture you, but…’” Olli agreed. “We keep all our leverage close, and…” But she didn’t have an “and,” not really.

  “Excuse me, but can someone at least explain to me who that even was,” Trine complained. Kris gave them the potted history, including the Architected Oumaru, the Vulture being taken at Lung-Crow and their first clash with the Broken Harvest. At the end of it, Trine’s phantom face was staring at all of them simultaneously with an expression of exasperation.

  “You needed me a long time ago, my companions in adversity.”

  “We need you to tell us where the things are,” Olli growled. “Or I will use whatever weird-ass influence I have with the Hook to have him do you first and make it slow.”

  Trine manufactured a vast sigh. “If it comes to threats, my somewhat obstreperous cellmates, then know that sometimes the greatest treasures are to be found within oneself.”

  Kris blinked. “Seriously?” She stared at the Hiver’s barrel body. “And they’re still… potent? You cracked the containment system?”

  “Not exactly. I simply discovered that it was independent of the casing,” Trine admitted. “But if it comes to blood, I will give these things up, despite the loss to science. In the hope it will soften the blow. Although you were the ones who robbed an Essiel gangster of a priceless treasure, so I don’t feel this is on my head.”

  *

  Soon after that, they were back in Aklu’s presence. True to his word, Sathiel had driven a wedge of cultists into the heart of the court. They were standing there, robes bright and regal, as though they’d turned up for a party everyone else had heard was cancelled. Aklu’s people didn’t seem to know quite what to make of the interlopers. The pack of thugs and
heavies were probably not connoisseurs of Hegemonic theology. However, they were keen weathervanes for the mood of their boss, and the Essiel seemed to accept the cultists with equanimity, like some kind of ineffectual judgement on its ways.

  The gilded Hiver spread their many arms towards the crew, in a gesture that eloquently conveyed Well? Kris glanced at her companions, because now they did know the location of the regalia. For a fragile moment, they retained a defiant camaraderie. Then Heremon appeared, pushing a simple six-by-four scaffold with obvious bindings for wrists and ankles, and a whole host of hooks and pins on jointed arms. You couldn’t have said for definite how those arms might be deployed, but they gave the imagination plenty to chew on.

  Kris looked to Solace, whose face was set in a stubborn expression. She was determined not to betray her companions to anyone else. Olli was being bloody-minded, too. And probably Kit had worked out that a Hanni wouldn’t fit on that frame: it was a nastiness designed for a human physique.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, because apparently it came down to her, but then Trine stepped forward. Despite their oftrepaired leg, they managed a halfway decent parody of the major-domo’s elegant dance.

  “I would—how does this go?—I would address the most Unspeakable from my position here of abject dread. How’s that, does that work?” Their fake face beamed genially at all and sundry.

  “Show first the relics,” the major-domo cautioned.

  “Gladly shall I so,” and Trine’s torso just folded outwards. Within the hollow canister of Trine’s body, a honeycomb hosted a seething nest of thumb-sized insects. Slotted in front of them were the precious Originator regalia. The rods and fragments hovered there without obvious support, as though they were visuals projected from some hidden lens. Despite her life being on the line, Kris still found herself wondering, How? Where does the power come from, for the a-grav? She hoped Trine knew, because those relics would become trash in a blink if they lost their mystical provenance.

  Trine’s arms spread out and the regalia drifted out from the confines of their body. All eyes tracked the fragments, as they danced in the air above their many hands. “Behold the treasure of an elder age,” the archaeologist murmured. “May I now speak, ’fore sentence is pronounced?”