Nova War s-2

by Gary Gibson

  He leaned down, touching the blade to the skin of the gas cell he crouched on.

  The effect was dramatic. A great rent opened up beneath him and he quickly moved back along the length of the cell, slicing as he went, the knife hardly jerking at all as he cut. The fabric the cells were made of was extremely tough, and designed to withstand high-impact rounds without tearing or breaking, but Moss's blade slipped through it and the surrounding netting with astonishing ease.

  Remembrance hopped over the gap between neighbouring cells and did the same to the next one along. It didn't take long at all before the dirigible began to list to one side, swinging away from the ledge yet again.

  As he kept cutting, the war-dirigible started to turn at an increasing rate, while dropping fast. After a minute's work, he'd cut four bags open out of a total of twelve, since there were two parallel rows of five gas cells, with two more placed at either end.

  The more he cut, the more the dirigible began to tip at one end, making it harder and harder for Remembrance to maintain his grip. He soon found himself clutching one-handed at an uneven slope that was threatening to tip him into the empty air high above the valley.

  He realized his mistake. He should have cut first one balloon at one end of the craft and then another at the far end to balance them out and keep the dirigible relatively level. But that was the kind of thing that only became clear with hindsight. All he could do now was cling to the tough netting surrounding the gas cells and hope for the best.

  The war-dirigible shuddered violently and he almost lost his grip. Simultaneously he heard a horrible screeching and scraping as the underside of the metal gondola hit the rim of the rocky ledge. The dirigible tipped over even more as it mashed itself up against the mountainside, and Remembrance held on for his life. But after a couple of seconds the craft floated away from direct contact with the ledge, and immediately began to level up.

  There were still angry clicks and hisses from the gondola below, but fewer than before, since some of the crew had been tipped out.

  Remembrance caught Honeydew's scent and realized belatedly that once the dirigible had sunk below the level of the ridge, he himself would present a much easier target. Peering over the side of one gas cell, he saw that Honeydew – along with his surviving security contingent – had manned the remaining gun platform.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  The ledge itself hove more and more into view as the dirigible dropped lower and lower. He stared numbly as Honeydew gesticulated wildly at his officers. The artillery platform then began to rotate on its mount, the bulbous barrel of its force cannon swivelling directly towards Remembrance.

  He scrambled backwards, as far away out of sight of the turret as possible, as it looked like the gondola crew was dispensable after all.

  A powerful blast of heat and light slammed into the side of the dirigible facing the mountain – almost exactly where he'd been only a moment before. A crunching sound from below was accompanied by screams, and suddenly the dirigible began to rise far more rapidly than it had been descending. There was the sound of something clanking and crashing about, growing rapidly fainter as the mountain fell away beneath him.

  Half the gas cells were gone now. He looked over the side and caught a glimpse of the gondola tumbling down the side of the mountain.

  He glanced quickly up at the clouds shrouding the mountain peaks, seeing faint wisps of cirrus that were suddenly looking a lot closer. He realized he had no choice now but to jump. He crawled to the side of what was left of the war-dirigible and threw himself far out into the cold, deep air.

  At first Remembrance tumbled wildly, as the air was too thin to give his wings a grip. But he eventually managed to spread them wide enough so he could at least guide himself in the direction of the convoy of blimps he'd spotted a few minutes before, and simultaneously away from the mountain slopes.

  The leading blimp, barely more than a dot at this height, was just passing between two of Darkwater's tallest Hive Towers. The rest of them – no doubt slaved to the first – followed it between the towers in a snake-like motion.

  The freezing air tore at Remembrance as he dropped, and he fought the black numbness that was once again threatening to overwhelm him. The wound sliced between his wings had become a hot line of insistent pain.

  He twisted around to look above him and felt little surprise when he spied a tiny dot far above, but growing rapidly closer. Another Bandati, using his wings not to slow his rate of descent -but to increase it.

  It could only be Honeydew.

  Remembrance recalled what the corrupt security agent had told him, how young Bandati – some young enough to have only just earned their reproductive rights by flying up to the platforms dotting the tower walls – liked to leap from the mountain's tallest escarpments. Assuming they didn't lose consciousness on the way down, they would try and brake their terrifying descent as close to the ground as possible.

  The mortality rate was high and the sport was barely legal, yet what Honeydew had said made it clear he'd had some experience of it. In which case, the Immortal Light agent had a distinct advantage.

  The blimps already looked a lot closer than only seconds before. Densely populated urban areas extended between the towers of the city, and he could see the low roofs of the alien quarter where the non-Bandati population had set up home. The river, fed by its tributaries, flowed through it all calmly on its way to the ocean.

  He was still dropping too fast, but even if he did manage to brake himself, it would merely allow Honeydew to catch up sooner. The Immortal Light agent was getting closer and closer, swooping from side to side in a manoeuvre Remembrance had never witnessed before.

  Remembrance spread his wings wide at the last moment before Honeydew reached him, angling into the air to drastically cut his velocity of descent. As he suddenly pulled up, Honeydew overshot him, wasting precious seconds before he managed to spread his wings wide and brake.

  Ground and sky whirled around Remembrance as the air caught his wings sharply, agonizing pain flooding through his back and the roots of his wings.

  By the time he stabilized his descent, the distance between himself and Honeydew had opened up considerably. But they were both still dropping too fast. Bandati wings were designed for short hops relatively close to the ground in a dense atmosphere, not for high-speed plummets through rarefied mountain air.

  He saw the hollow peak of a Hive Tower far below, and could just make out the buildings sitting on the platforms protruding from its sides. He briefly entertained the notion of aiming for one of them, but at the rate he was moving, and given his injuries, there was a pretty good chance he'd just end up getting himself killed.

  The cargo blimps still presented a marginally better target. Remembrance tensed as he dropped towards one of them, and he tried tacking from side to side in the same way he'd seen Honeydew do.

  In the last few seconds of his descent he heard a soft percussive sound, faint with distance.

  A flash of light dazzled him and he twisted around, panicking. Another war-dirigible – identical to the one he'd just escaped from – had appeared from around the far side of the Tower he'd thought of aiming for. More flashes of light erupted from the direction of its gondola, and heat and flame exploded around Remembrance.

  He twisted as he hit the upper surface of a cargo blimp, hard, and rolled and bounced before he managed to grab onto some netting, half-blinded by the flash of the force cannon. He crouched there, head pressed against the gas cells beneath the netting, waiting for the powerful throb in his veins to pass. If he wasn't careful he was going to pass out, and then all his effort at staying alive would be in vain.

  He pulled his head back up and saw Honeydew as the agent staggered upright on the next blimp along. Clearly, the Immortal Light agent's own landing had been far from easy, too. He started flexing and straightening his wings, while examining them over his shoulders, checking for damage. Remembrance did the same, testing his wings
while favouring the one that had been wounded.

  He then glanced towards the approaching war-dirigible, just as two puffs of smoke emerged from the side of its gondola.

  Remembrance ran along the top of his blimp and took to the air again, lifting off just as the first of two incendiary rockets struck the point where he'd been standing. The blimp was transformed into a ball of blazing fire and began to come apart, dropping towards the city below with shocking speed. He flew as vigorously as he could towards another blimp, but heading away from Honeydew.

  The air was now dense enough to support him in flight, yet the question remained whether he had enough strength even to glide down to the streets below. His body normally could only power itself in short bursts of flight, and he'd used up too much strength in the thin mountain air.

  Then, at last, came the first sign of hope.

  As he touched down on another blimp, he felt so utterly weary that he seriously doubted his chances of evading capture or death. A second war-dirigible suddenly appeared from between two Hive Towers about half a kilometre distant: patterns of light flickering along the rim of the new arrival's gondola – the familiar identification code of his own Darkening Skies hive.

  The cavalry had arrived, and not a moment too soon.

  The Immortal Light dirigible was close enough now for him to hear its commander shouting orders to his underlings. It started to tack towards the Darkening Skies dirigible, but not before it had fired a second set of incendiaries at Remembrance. He took off again as the missiles wove lazy arcs through the thick air, before slamming into the blimp.

  Every beat of his wings now felt like it was tearing at their connective tissues, and he realized his time might well be numbered in seconds. He reached back and unsheathed his shotgun, taking aim at the figures in the enemy gondola that were so intent on killing him. But he was starting to lose focus, his vision suddenly blurring; and after a moment he couldn't even see well enough to take aim.

  He shook his head and his sight cleared a little, then he swooped in a long arc towards the Immortal Light war-dirigible with the last of his strength, seeing the weapons mounted on the sides of its gondola track him even as he flew. He felt a flash of hot pain in one wing and knew he'd been hit once more, but didn't bother to check how badly.

  Instead he reached into a harness pocket and pulled out a fresh round, fumbling it into his shotgun and taking wild aim at his would-be assassins.

  The shot might have found its target, or it might as easily have gone wildly astray. He was dimly aware that the battle was being closely observed from the tiers and platforms of nearby towers, even as he flew towards what was probably certain death. Or it might have all been a hallucination born of fatigue and blood-loss.

  He swooped upwards at the last moment, pulling himself on top of the Immortal Light war-dirigible. It was just a temporary plan, one that might buy him a moment or two. He was, after all, an easy target for any enemy sniper who cared to pick him off from any one of a hundred nearby platforms that bore witness to his struggles.

  The shotgun slipped from his hands and he fell face-first onto one of the gas cells, the breath rasping in his throat.

  A shadow floated across Remembrance's face. I've been caught, he thought. Or perhaps it was the Queen of Queens come to collect him for his final journey to the shadow-world.

  Instead, heavy-winged shapes thumped onto the same hardened fabric and netting on which he lay exhausted, and he felt long, fur-covered hands reach down and lift him up. They bore him aloft, and the sound of their wings beating in the thick, honeyed air was strangely comforting.

  In his last moments of consciousness, he recognized the scent of his fellow Darkening Skies Hive-members, who had come for him at last. Three The next time Dakota woke was to find herself bound to a rusted gurney, her ankles and wrists held in place by tight straps.

  For the first time in weeks, her mind felt clear and she remembered everything in appalling, grisly detail: Nova Arctis, Corso, and the escape from the exploding supernova against impossible odds.

  Everything.

  She had lashed the Piri Reis to a derelict alien starship and carried out a superluminal jump, trusting to fate as to where they would emerge. In fact, they had dropped back into normal space near a Bandati colony world occupied for longer than human civilization had existed.

  Dakota stared up into a vast shaft filled with light and air, a circle of sky visible far, far overhead. An airship constructed of bulbous gas bags, with a gondola suspended beneath, ponderously made its way upwards from the floor of the shaft towards that distant circle of sky.

  Balconies were placed around the shaft's interior, seeming to blur together the further up she looked. There was plant-life everywhere, a riot of red and green in more or less equal measures, virtually a vertical forest growing out of the shaft's walls; and buzzing through it all, hundreds upon hundreds of Bandati making short hops from balcony to balcony.

  But more importantly – much, much more importantly – she sensed the thoughts of the derelict starship they had recovered from Nova Arctis for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, like a whisper barely heard through the wall of an adjoining room. Her machine-head implants were still inextricably linked to this ancient craft, and it was clear to her how severely it had been damaged.

  The gurney was angled so that her head was raised higher than her feet, and she twisted her head around to try and see her more immediate surroundings. She took in the details through a panic-stricken haze, her heart hammering and adrenalin flooding her brain.

  A variety of robot arms tipped with sensors, along with one or two sharp-looking blades, sprouted from a machine attached to one side of the gurney. The skin of her naked belly tightened with terror at the thought of what might be intended for her.

  She had been here before, many times. How could she have forgotten? She The food-pipe, she realized. The ambrosia.

  Then, at last, she caught sight of Lucas Corso.

  He was bound, naked and helpless, to another gurney several metres away, almost unrecognizable without his hair and eyebrows. She could see that his gurney rested on bare metal wheels. Between the two of them were perhaps half a dozen Bandati, looking more like hallucinogenically inspired rag dolls up-close than actual living creatures. Their mouth-parts clicked busily, their wide, iridescent wings twitching and flapping as they spoke, filling the air with a sound like flags whipping in a strong wind.

  They were surrounded by low walls, entirely open to the air, except that a series of translucent panels topping these walls were angled outwards. As Dakota watched, these panels began to fold inwards, like the leaves of a lotus flower closing for the night.

  More and more memories flooded back.

  The Bandati had been holding them prisoner for weeks (she had a sudden flash of something burning its way through the Piri Reis's hull as they waited for rescue). They'd been brought here before to be questioned – and, more often than not, tortured.

  And yet the ambrosia swept those memories away every time. 'Lucas!'

  Corso blinked and peered towards her, his eyes glassy. She guessed he was taking longer to shake off the effect of the ambrosia.

  He worked his jaw for a moment as if he'd briefly forgotten how to form words. 'I thought maybe you were dead,' he called over. 'I-'

  'I'm all right. I'm all right, Lucas.' She realized she was crying, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. 'Don't eat the ambrosia!' she screamed.

  He shook his head with an expression of befuddlement. 'The what?'

  'Do you hear me? The pipe in the wall! Don't go near it!'

  'The…' His gaze drifted away, as if he was fighting the urge to fall asleep. One of the Bandati approached her gurney, its complex mouth-parts snapping together to produce a series of rapid, complicated-sounding clicks she couldn't even hope to comprehend. After a moment her interrogator raised a small, snub-nosed object in one wiry, black arm and pressed it firmly against her forehead.

&n
bsp; The effect only lasted for an instant, but it felt like the worst pain in the world, as if hot lava had been poured onto every nerve ending in her body. She screamed, her body bucking and twisting under its restraints, trying to twist away from the source of that terrible agony.

  The Bandati that held the device reached out with one wiry black hand, and appeared to touch the air at a midpoint between them. Dakota noticed a tiny object like a coloured bead hanging there, suspended in the air. It moved slightly from side to side, and she realized with a start that the bead was keeping pace with the movements of her interrogator's head as if attached by an invisibly fine wire.

  At the Bandati's gesture, the bead began to glow softly. Dakota suddenly recalled that the bead was a translation device, but apparently not a very effective one.

  The Bandati made another gesture and the bead changed colour, now glowing a bright, fiery orange. A moment later the torturer's mouth-parts began to rattle and click once more. Simultaneously, words – recognizably human words – emerged from a point midway between Dakota and her interrogator, generated by the bead. The accent was harsh, machine-like, making it hard to distinguish one word from another.

  '-silence. To speak not speak when questioned. Questioning/enquiring/interrogative point of origin? Response.'

  The creature's mouth parts stopped clicking and the simultaneous translation ceased. The words had been garbled nonsense.

  'Questioned/Responding?' The Bandati asked again, its own rapid clicks providing a percussive backdrop to the bead's machine voice. 'Answer? Again.'

  'I…' Dakota licked her lips, and shook her head. 'I don't understand.'

  Dakota's interrogator regarded her silently. A fresh torrent of clicks poured out from the bead, and she guessed they were her own words translated into the Bandati's language.

  To Dakota's surprise, as the clicks poured forth, a rich variety of scents briefly filled the air between them, making Dakota think of dying flowers and oiled copper. She now vaguely recalled that the Bandati employed scent glands in some parts of their communication.