“Now, you’ll have to be patient with these people,” Jen said, as she unbuckled from the pilot’s seat. “They’re a bit… unusual. And try not to make sudden moves, they can be a little twitchy.”
Alek muttered something under his breath.
“Oh come on,” she chided him. “They won’t kill you.”
“S’not what they said last time we met.”
“It’s been decades! They won’t even be the same people. They hate life extension tech, remember? One of the many joys of their religion.”
“So’s indoctrination,” he countered. “They’ve probably written a verse about me in their holy book, and taught their children to recite it.”
Tris was getting a tad concerned about Alek’s reaction. Although Jen appeared the most stable of the pair, her brother had shown remarkable courage under fire. Or something approximating it, anyway. If he was genuinely worried about these people, maybe that was something to consider. Tris freed his knife and fitted it to its handle. Better safe than sorry. There was something about that wickedly-sharp blade that seemed a whole lot more intimidating than a rifle barrel.
Jen went into the airlock first, keeping a firm grip on the doorframe and lifting her legs through one at a time. Her youthful vigour in the pilot’s chair had been crushed by harsh reality once she hauled herself out of it, and pain was evident in her movements.
Tris felt weird to be going last into a first-contact situation, but he figured the others had a better chance of explaining their arrival. After all, coming here was Jen’s idea; he’d gone along with it because he had nothing else to suggest.
Something will crop up, he told himself. It always does. Fate had been kind and harsh to him in equal measure lately, but he was learning from every experience. And I’m still alive… which by this point has to be some kind of miracle.
His first glance at the inside of the Ring was nothing spectacular. A short corridor clad in scuffed metal panels ran away from the docking hatch; the lighting was dim, despite plenty of overhead fixtures. The faint hum of machinery at work and a sharp chemical scent filled the air. There was no decoration, nor any hint of the incredibly advanced technology that had been used to build the place — just a standard, boring interior.
The group of young men waiting for them, however, were anything but.
Bald, and slender to the point of unhealthiness, all three of them wore togas made of flowing white fabric into which patterns reminiscent of circuit diagrams had been stitched. Their faces bore multiple piercings, and their skin bulged with objects inserted beneath it — those dermal implants that hardcore Goth-types were fond of. Instead of horns and spikes, these guys had gears and springs; the tallest one’s forehead was like the inside of a Swiss watch with skin stretched over it. They looked like a punk rock band, only with gleaming spears in their hands instead of guitars.
“Outsiders are not welcome here,” said the tall one, in a voice that identified him as the leader. “Go back to your ship, and return to the surface immediately.”
Jen lifted her hands to him, palms out. “Now hold on a minute,” she said, her casual attitude a stark contrast. “You don’t even know why we’re here. We’ve come seeking help, because—”
“You are known to us,” watch-face snarled. He jabbed a finger at Alek. “This man is a blasphemer! The servant of the false prophet is under sentence of death.”
Alek gave his sister an ‘I told-you-so’ look.
Jen rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, how long ago was that?” She flapped a hand at the young man. “Before you were born, surely? And you can’t possibly be in charge here. So be a good boy, run along and fetch your father for me, will you?”
“How dare you question my status! My father gave his life during the Extension. I am First amongst the warriors of the Faithful, and I—” he broke off and glanced around, distracted.
A small group of children came scampering up behind him, chattering away to one another and pushing past the men. They arranged themselves in a second line, facing Jen and Alek, and bowed to them. Three boys and a girl, all under ten and all as pale as milk. “Please sirs,” one of the boys said, “Father Macca would like to see you.”
Before Jen could reply, the leader of the three men grabbed the kid and spun him around. “You can’t be here! The old fart has no authority over outsiders.”
The boy pushed his hand away. “No, but he said to tell you that he’s got authority over the air in your quarters, and whether or not the welders accidentally chop a big hole in the wall you share with the void.”
The tall man straightened as if stung. “We cannot have these… unclean ones in here, polluting our atmosphere with their poisonous lies. The Faithful will not stand for it.”
“Poor First,” the little girl piped up. “If you’re scared of catching something, maybe you should run away from them.”
First stomped the ground with the butt of his spear. “I’ll take this to the Faithful. The old man has crossed the line this time! He can’t threaten me.”
“I think he just did,” Alek murmured, and Tris stifled a chuckle. He’d been monitoring the mood of the three men, watching for any sign that they were about to attack. Though belligerent and hostile, none of them had any real claim to being warriors. The scariest thing they’d used those spears on was rats. The children, who he’d sensed approaching, were more of a conundrum. They seemed relatively normal, lacking the religious fervour of the older men and instead regarding Tris and his companions with awe.
“Well now,” Jen addressed them, as the trio of young men stomped off in a huff, “that was very nicely done. Would you mind escorting us to Father Macca?”
Giggling and shoving each other, the children led them through a maze of wide corridors and hallways. The whole place seemed to be undergoing renovation, being partially clad in slabs of a dull white material. Spider-like welding machines scuttled between wall panels, the torches on their arms firing up to fuse each seam together. The smell of burning metal reached Tris’ nostrils, and he discovered the source of the chemical aroma; little toaster-ovens on wheels meandered along the corridors, spraying cleaning fluid on the floors and then buffing them to a sheen with fluffy spinning discs. It was a hive of activity… but completely devoid of humans.
He reached out with the Gift and identified a handful of souls nearby. All were bent towards their tasks, which mostly included prayer, or assembling bits of machinery. He sensed a larger gathering further off, perhaps thirty or forty people united in angst-ridden debate. That’d be the Faithful, then. They don’t seem very happy. He didn’t bother probing too closely, but he got the sense that not being happy was fairly normal for them. Why do they even bother living up here? Maybe that’s why this place is so empty.
Jen must have been wondering the same thing. “Where is everyone?”
The little girl stopped skipping and scratched her head. She alone had thin, lank blonde hair; all three of the boys had their heads shaved. “Um… I heard that a lot of people got killed in the Expansion. But that was before I was born.”
Alek thrust his tablet at Jen, nearly causing her to trip. “They tried to annex the section down-Ring twenty years ago. They cut through something vital, and depressurised the chamber they were in.”
Tris winced. That was the thing that scared him most about living in space; being only centimetres from certain death, every second of every day. He’d mostly gotten used to it, taking the Folly’s heavily-armoured hull for granted, but this was a grim reminder of the danger they all faced just by doing their jobs.
The background hum had been growing as they walked. By now it was a deep, droning buzz that seemed to emanate from everywhere; the walls, the floor, the ceiling… It was impossible to ignore, and he could feel it seeping into his skull. “What is that?” he asked, tapping his temple. “Is it normal?”
Two of the boys looked up at him, confused. Obviously it was normal as far as they were concerned.
The inte
rior design work progressed to a more finished state the deeper they went, culminating in a short stretch of corridor that was completely sheathed in the white substance; smooth in places, but etched with symbols and diagrams in others.
“This is nice,” Tris said, talking mostly to take his mind off the buzz. “Is it all going to look like this? It’ll be lovely when it’s done.”
Then he turned the corner and stopped dead.
What in god’s name…?
He’d seen a lot of weird things in his life, but this was something else. This was so far beyond weird that it needed a new dictionary definition. Even the maddening drone was forgotten, as he gazed around in horror.
He was in a long, narrow chamber, with a kind of altar at the far end. Torchlight flickered, lending an eerie, medieval vibe to the place.
Embalmed corpses decorated the walls. Each was mounted vertically, heads bowed in prayer, their shoulders touching those of the next body over. Simple white robes like bed sheets were wrapped around them and tied with electrical cable. Their pale faces had been tattooed with what looked like construction blueprints, which in some cases continued onto the bare flesh of their arms and shoulders… on closer inspection, he could see that some of the bodies had been stitched back together, reassembled from parts that didn’t always fit precisely — and probably didn’t belong together. Burns, lacerations and other bits of damage had been circled in ink, joined together with lines in the creepiest version of dot-to-dot that Tris had ever seen.
And on every head sat a rainbow wig, the long, multi-coloured tresses stirring in the breeze from the air conditioner.
Kyra. It has to be. Tris had always suspected there was more to the psychically-controllable hair than she let on, but that was par for the course. She wasn’t big on sharing, particularly when it came to her past.
And he was starting to understand why.
Her past is seriously fucked up.
“The Hall of Martyrs is at the centre of our schism,” came a deep, sonorous voice from the shadows behind the altar. An old man stepped forward, a golden staff with a head of cog-wheels in one hand. “Such a tragedy, to think that the very sacrifice these people represent is even now being denied by my brethren. They refuse to believe in the Saviour, ridiculing her as a false prophet. And so they reject the opportunity to descend to paradise; they remain in the belly of the steel serpent, building and scheming for all eternity.”
Jen stepped forward, into the sputtering light of a flaming torch. The entire room was lit with them, Tris realised, which seemed like a terrible idea on a space station. “Do you know me?” she asked the old man.
“Indeed I do.” He shuffled closer, and the shifting shadows revealed his face; half of it was a mass of scar tissue, and he had only one rheumy eye. “I was a child when you last graced us with your presence, but I saw the Saviour with my own eyes. And I recognise the Saviour’s Disciple.” He smiled, and nodded to Alek. “You’ll have to forgive an old priest, whose joints do not allow him the flexibility to kneel.”
Alek made a strangled sound. “You can call me Highness,” he said.
The old man bowed his head. “As The Saviour’s Disciple permits.”
Tris moved into the light, hoping he wouldn’t startle the priest. He sensed a gentle soul, albeit one who’d been forced to develop some steel. This man, more than any of the youngsters who’d confronted them, was a warrior.
“Excuse me,” he started. “My friends and I have a bit of a problem, and we’re wondering if you can help. A man named Viktor has taken control of the world down below, and he’s using the Ring to build an army of robots. We’ve come to try and stop production, but we’re a little light on munitions.” He hoisted the bag of bombs off his shoulder, placed it on the floor and unzipped it to show its contents.
The ruined face creased in a frown. “What you ask… I fear, we have little to offer. There are those of the New Faith who have been gathering such devices from deep in the serpent’s tail. They will not willingly surrender them, however. Their beliefs have diverged to the point of heresy, and they are completely beyond reason. They allow me to live here and tend this shrine only because I am the custodian of the Sacred Engine.” He smirked. “And because none of them dare study the forbidden arts of controlling this place.”
The children had been silent until now, but apparently this was enough discussion for them. “Father Macca,” one boy whined, “when can we go and eat?”
The old man gave Alek an apologetic glance. “My apologies, Your Highness, but the young feel hunger more keenly than us. Would you care to accompany us in our repast?”
“Yes please,” Tris interjected, before Alek could respond. He was done staring at the dead bodies hanging from the walls; more details presented themselves every time he looked, like severed limbs in jars and display cases that filled the gaps between the corpses. Between that, and the constant noise in his head, he was eager to be anywhere else. “We’d love to come with you.”
The priest shot him a questioning glance, perhaps wondering why Tris dared to speak for such exalted individuals. “Very well,” he said, turning and shuffling back towards the altar. “This way.”
The room they entered, via a small door behind the altar, was as different from the Hall of Martyrs as it was possible to be. The macabre decor and flickering gloom was replaced with a wide expanse of polished metal deck. It was a huge and brightly-lit space, though bizarrely empty. In the centre of the room, a machine the size of a minibus sat throbbing, its vibrations traveling through the floor to Tris’ feet. This had to be the source of that buzz, which had now grown to a point where he could feel it in his teeth. Holy crap! Does this guy live with that all the time? Surely there’s got to be a better way to do… whatever the hell that thing does.
“Something’s not right here,” said Alek, walking in next to him.
Tris raised an eyebrow at him. “No shit! You saw the dead bodies hanging from the walls, right?”
Alek flapped a hand at him. “Oh, that’s nothing. They’ve got one of those beneath the palace, too.” Tris gaped at him, but he ignored it. “No, I mean that.” He walked over to the machine. “It’s even more broken than the last time I saw it.”
The priest, who’d been heading for another door on the far side of the chamber stopped to follow his gaze. “The Sacred Engine is punishing us,” he said, sounding melancholy. “Where once we had scores of Nix to attend it, now only I remain. Perhaps I am doing penance for allowing the New Faith to usurp our beliefs?”
“Or,” Alek said, “it’s a fusion generator with a faulty oscillator.”
Father Macca didn’t seem to hear him. “Year upon year it degrades, and I can do nothing to stop it. The last curator of a dying machine, rendered obsolete by the very faith it was created to serve.”
“Or,” Alek repeated, “You could order the parts to replace the oscillator, and task some of your maintenance bots to install them. Or shut the whole thing down completely. You’re on mains power now, so you don’t need it. It’s not even connected to anything, and you probably want to stop it from going boom in ten years.”
Father Macca sighed — the profound, world-weary sigh of one who sees no light at the end of his tunnel. “Perhaps it is as you say. But such knowledge is beyond my ken, and I fear I have precious little time left to learn it. The Sacred Engine was the lifeblood of our civilisation. In all of scripture, there is no mention of a way to turn it off.”
He turned back towards the far door. The children were already lined up beside it, waiting patiently for him. He shuffled over and let them in, disappearing through the door after them. Jen followed him in, probably keen to sit down for a bit.
Tris took the opportunity to sidle over to Alek, who was still squinting at the thrumming generator. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.
Confusion blossomed on the coder’s face. “I can’t tell. Only Kyra and her mother have the Gift.”
“I do too, actu
ally,” Tris admitted, “but that’s not the point I was trying to make. I was wondering what you’re thinking about this generator.”
Alek gave a derisive snort. “That it’s scrap. And a death sentence too, if they don’t get rid of it. I tried to tell them years ago, but these people are impossible to talk to.”
“Ah.” Tris was secretly quite pleased with himself. It wasn’t every day he got one up on a genius. “What I’m thinking is, we just found our bomb.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Tris could see the implications of his idea dawning on Alek.
The coder’s eyes darted wildly as his brain got to work. “We could accelerate the deterioration somehow?”
“We could stick a bloody great lump of explosives onto it and see if that does the trick,” Tris suggested.
Alek nodded absent-mindedly. “Yes, true… but transportation is the issue. We’d need to move it deep into the Laugarren section and seal the doors behind us. The blast yield will be enormous; these people may be imbeciles, but they’re technically still my subjects. I’d rather not disintegrate them.”
Tris drummed his fingers on his jaw, stopping when a spike of pain from his collar bone forced him to. “Well, I can’t carry it. How much do you think it weighs?”
Alek shrugged. “A lot. I can look it up if you’d like.”
Tris massaged his shoulder. “Hey, Viktor’s building an army of robots up here, right? Literally one section away? Can’t you hack into some of them, maybe get them to come over here and carry this thing back with them?”
The look Alek gave him was answer enough. “Yes, of course I can hack Viktor’s robots. I spent half a day dodging bullets and running for my life because I needed the exercise.”
Embers of Esper: A Sci Fi Adventure (Warden's Legacy Book 1) Page 28
