Bringer of Light (Hidden Empire)

by Jaine Fenn

  Kerin took a deep breath of the foetid air and walked slowly through the archway.

  Her first impression was how cluttered the room was. Devices of unknown function lined the walls and hung from the ceiling. In the centre of the room stood a large wooden frame, like a bed with no mattress. On one side of the frame was a great wheel and some smaller cogs, to turn the frame to any angle. A naked man was strapped to the frame, his hands pinioned above his head. His feet were contained in a wooden box with a handle on the side. The frame was currently inclined at a shallow angle facing the door. Urien, standing at its foot, turned to Kerin as she entered and swept back in a bow, making the circle as he straightened.

  The third man in the room also made a deep obeisance. He was a rangy, stolid-faced youth whose large ears protruded from long, straggly hair. He stared at her with an expression of horrified awe, grunting softly as his hand repeatedly circled his breast. Urien had told her that the inquirers, themselves prisoners of suitable temperament whose own death sentences had been commuted, had their tongues removed when they were put to work in the dungeons.

  Kerin made herself approach the bound figure. Siarl, his name is Siarl, she reminded herself. At first she could not focus beyond the stained wooden box encasing his feet. The stains were the same colour as those in the indentation in the stone floor below the frame. She looked up abruptly. One of Siarl’s arms was marked with long, dark streaks and a lacework of thinner trickles ran down into his armpit. The other arm was unmarked. There were a dozen or so raw spots on his chest that looked like burns. When she saw what had been done to his groin it took all her willpower not to look away.

  Urien remained half-turned to her, to maintain the illusion of respect while he addressed the prisoner. ‘Captain, you are honoured. The Beloved Daughter of Heaven has chosen to hear your confession in person.’

  Siarl stared at her: one of his eyes was bloodshot and puffy; the other looked unnaturally wide and bright in contrast. She saw the agony in his face, and the effort of not giving voice to his pain.

  ‘Div— Divinity!’ His right hand twitched in its manacle. Despite everything, he was trying to make the circle. ‘Divinity, I – I tried to be worthy! Of you. Of the . . . Mothers. My faith is strong – beyond – all this.’

  ‘Then speak your confession, chilwar,’ said Urien gently.

  ‘Unburden your soul,’ Kerin said, as imperiously as she could manage, grateful for the hidden technology in her headdress that smoothed her words, even, if she wished, amplified them. The Sidhe had been careful to ensure that the Cariad’s voice remained constant throughout the ages.

  Siarl stared at her. His gaze made her feel naked, despite her veil. He continued to stare, his damaged eye watering copiously. Finally, his mouth twitched. He made a strange noise, deep in his throat. For a moment Kerin could not place it. Then he did it again, and this time she realised: he was laughing. The laughter had a raw edge to it, and it ended in a word, growled out long and slow: ‘Impostor.’

  Kerin had no doubt he meant her. Siarl had drawn breath again, and the laughter restarted, but quickly turned to sobbing.

  She looked at Urien, who was watching Siarl with an expression on his face Kerin initially took for distaste, until she saw it was more like disgust, though not, she suspected, for the poor man disintegrating before them.

  Captain Siarl began to mutter, and Urien leaned closer. Despite herself, Kerin tried to hear what he was saying. He was praying to Turiach, beseeching the Mother of Mercy to give him succour in his time of need; it was a prayer she knew well, and to hear it in these circumstances made her feel sick.

  Suddenly Siarl said, quite clearly, ‘—should never have gone there—’

  She wondered if Urien would try and follow up the unexpectedly coherent phrase, but he said nothing; looking back at Siarl’s rolling eyes and twitching mouth, Kerin suspected they would get very little sense from him now.

  Siarl continued, his chest heaving and his voice louder, as though fired by some hidden reservoir of manic strength, ‘Had to try and warn her . . . not innocent, but better she goes, just goes . . . He damns himself, he always has . . . knew as soon I saw her, it was those eyes, Aelwen’s eyes . . .’

  Kerin turned her head a fraction to look at Urien; if the name Aelwen meant anything to him he gave no sign of it. She smelled urine, and saw the fresh tears on Siarl’s cheeks. Everything was running from him: liquid, words, sanity . . .

  ‘—would not listen . . . he never would, when it was about her . . . says it is not true, but anyone can see . . . he can be a foolish, stubborn man, always was, always . . . Olwenna will scold me for being so late!’ This last was delivered loudly, and in a tone of great affront.

  ‘Olwenna. Your wife,’ Urien said to the raving man, answering Kerin’s unspoken question; she was, after all, supposed to be all-knowing.

  Kerin could bear it no more. She turned and stumbled round the corner, almost tripping over her heels, and into the first empty cell she found. There she ripped off her headdress and bent over, bracing herself against the wall with her other hand as hot vomit rushed up her throat. She kept retching until her guts were aching, weeping so hard she could not see straight. Her legs tried to give out, but some stupid, practical impulse would not let her fall; what if the Cariad were seen abroad with her clothes covered in filth and puke? Instead she put both hands against the wall and focused on the feel of the rough stone digging into her palms. She thought she could still hear Siarl’s unhinged ranting.

  By the time she had regained control of herself, there was only silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘I’ve got you on sensors,’ said Jarek. ‘Well, when I say you . . .’

  ‘Just the box – yeah, I know. I’m right behind it, pushing. Best way to move it.’ Taro sounded out of breath.

  ‘I don’t want to worry you, but we’re drawing a lot of attention.’ The coms board was a solid block of colour, and he was the lucky recipient of several active sensor sweeps – though no weapons were locked on them yet – at least, none the Heart of Glass’s comp recognised.

  ‘No shit. You think they know something’s up?’

  ‘Reckon they do.’ He checked the readouts again. ‘Uh, your heading’s off.’

  ‘I know. Fucking thing’s a pig to drive. Hang on . . .’

  ‘Yeah, that’s better. Right, I’ll bring the ship about so you’re lined up with the cargo-hold.’

  Once he’d repositioned the Heart of Glass, Jarek opened the com again. ‘You’re on course for intercept in fifty-five seconds. Soon as you’re a bit closer I’ll open the doors. You ready?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be. How hard . . . can it be?’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Just like spitting into a moving bucket.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m the spit.’

  ‘At this speed it’s— Shit!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think they’re firing up a mass-driver.’

  ‘And that’s bad, is it?’

  ‘Potentially – but we stick with the plan, all right?’

  ‘Sure. Am I still heading for the hold doors?’

  ‘You’re heading for the doors. More or less.’

  ‘In that case don’t change course and don’t speed up.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘Here we go . . .’

  Taro’d’ve thought the lack of grav would’ve made it easier to move the comabox, but no such luck. He only had to give it a gentle shove and it was off like greased shit. Any time his aim wasn’t spot-on, he ended up having to re-adjust its course immediately. It was like juggling jelly.

  He was going at a fair old lick, but as the Heart of Glass loomed larger he realised this wasn’t necessarily a good thing: quite aside from the comabox being harder to steer the faster it went, Nual, inside the box, wasn’t in for a soft landing when they got there. Given it was too big to hold, the only way to slow the comabox down was to get in front of it and use his body as a brake,
but when he flew round and tried that, the bastard thing just pushed him back. For a moment he panicked, until he worked out that he needed to actively fly, opposing the box’s momentum with the power from his implants.

  That worked. The only problem now was that he was facing the wrong way.

  ‘Taro! Quick! – you need to go left about twenty degrees.’

  ‘Whose fucking left, Jarek?’ Taro twisted his head to look behind at the Heart of Glass, oriented himself, and shimmied to his right. Just in time, he flew up and away from the box, which sailed neatly in through the open doors, missing the leftmost one by a handbreadth. Taro activated his suit’s forceshield and flew in after it.

  The forceshield over the cargo-doors was a lot stronger than the one on the Consensus airlock; going through it was like leaping through a curtain of cold fire.

  He curled, tucking in his head whilst telling his implants to bring him to a relative stop.

  It worked, sort of: he hit the far wall, rolled up it, then hung there, spread-eagled upside down, getting his breath back. The landing might have gone better if he’d remembered to turn the lifter-harness off first. Better late then never. He touched the controls and felt its embrace loosen.

  He grunted and slid down the wall, re-orienting to come up standing on shaking legs. The comabox had gouged the deck plating, then bounced off the wall, leaving a mark on the bulkhead and a dink in the corner of the box, to finally come to rest at an angle against the curving wall.

  ‘Fuck’, he muttered, and reached out with his mind. The box would’ve insulated Nual from vacuum and forceshields, but it didn’t have any inertial dampening.

  Nual’s presence flickered at the edge of consciousness: she was still out of it. She might be injured, but just knowing she was in there, and alive, was a massive relief.

  He crouched down to check the readouts on the box. The hacked bots who’d been reprogrammed to move it from storage to the airlock had also been told to start the wake-up cycle.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  Jarek’s voice in his ear broke the faint contact with Nual. ‘Think so. I’m just checking.’

  ‘Any idea how long before she’ll be in a state to make the shift?’

  ‘Dunno. Wait a sec.’ He had another look at the control-panel. ‘This readout’s saying, um, twelve minutes before she’s fully conscious.’

  ‘And she’ll need a few minutes to get herself together after that. Shit. That’s not ideal.’

  ‘’cos of the mass-driver, you mean?’

  ‘Amongst other things. They tried to lob a whole bunch of junk at us with the ’driver just after you came aboard, and if we were still on the old vector it’d be hitting us about now. Fortunately we’re not. The bastards don’t realise how fast this ship can go when I really ramp her up.’

  Taro glanced at the cargo-hold doors, now closed again. ‘So there’s nothing to worry about, right?’ Of course, if the Consensus did score a direct hit on the Heart of Glass, Taro wouldn’t know anything about it until it was too late.

  ‘Your faith is touching – and not misplaced, fortunately. Looks like that glitch you set off is working; none of the weapons are firing on us. Presumably the mass-driver’s intended to accelerate cargo, so it’s on a different system. I think they loaded it up with whatever was to hand and sent it after us more as a fuck-you gesture than because it’s an effective weapon.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got things under control.’ Taro hoped he had. There was something he needed to do down here before anything else intervened. He had a promise to keep.

  Jarek snorted. ‘Did I mention the ships on intercept courses? Pretty much every vessel within half a light-second is heading this way, Taro – and there’s no way of knowing if any of them are on a suicide-trip.’

  ‘But we’re accelerating up from the main disc, ain’t we?’

  ‘Up, up and away. As soon as you and Nual are ready, we’ll shift. Meanwhile, I could use you up here monitoring sensors and getting the comp on the case if we need to take evasive manoeuvres. I need to prep the ship for transit.’

  ‘Uh, I’m sure you can manage without me—’

  ‘Look, Taro, I know you’re worried about Nual, but I could really use you on the bridge right now. You can nip back down in ten minutes and check on her—’

  ‘No! I mean, I have to stay here.’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, Taro! We’re not out of the woods yet.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll come up as soon as I can, really I will.’ He cut the connection and blocked incoming com. Jarek might not be happy but Taro’s mission wasn’t over yet.

  While they’d been talking he’d been checking out the cargo-hold. Jarek had moved the beacon back from the doors once the Consensus’ bots had got it aboard and passed over the controller for the force-cage.

  The v-suit that’d been such a comfort in space felt stifling now he was on the ship. He double-checked the atmosphere, then ran a thumb along the neck seam and peeled back the hood. He took a big gulp of ship’s air and shivered; when he breathed out his breath steamed. The ship’s forceshield might have kept the atmosphere stable, but the ship’d lost heat while the doors were open.

  He walked slowly around the cargo-hold. Despite the need to hurry, he wasn’t eager to get close to the beacon. That might be down to more than an over-active imagination; beacons were shit-powerful artefacts and even enclosed in a force-cage, some of that power could leak out. Still, this one wasn’t fully active yet – Vy’d said beacons didn’t come online until they’d taken their first trip through shiftspace. After that, getting too close to one would probably be fatal – and it would be too late to carry out Vy’s last wish. Right now the consciousness-fragment of whichever male had imprinted on the beacon was dormant; this was the only time it could be overwritten.

  Looking at the force-cage made Taro’s eyes water – forceshields hurt the eyes; he knew that ’cos Khesh City was enclosed in one – though in this case the effect might be partly down to the beacon itself, a perfect sphere floating in the centre of the glowing orange cube. The swirling, multi-coloured surface made him feel sick whilst at the same time beguiling him; keep looking, it seemed to be saying silently, keep looking and get sucked in . . .

  Taro tore his gaze away; blobby after-images danced across his vision. He checked the floor for the cage controller, but there was no sign of it; Jarek must’ve taken it up to the bridge once he’d stowed the beacon. Taro wasn’t sure how much use it would be anyway.

  Did he really have to do this? If the Minister asked him, he could always say he tried – if he just flushed the chip, no one would know any better.

  But he’d know, and Nual too, of course; he didn’t keep secrets from her. She wouldn’t condemn him – she’d understand. That would make it even worse.

  He’d come too far not to finish this.

  Vy had said an inert beacon couldn’t harm him, provided he didn’t actually touch it, but a forceshield strong enough to contain a beacon was another matter. Good job he had his own forceshield, though it was a pretty fucking feeble one in comparison. It’d just have to be strong enough—

  He rolled the hood back up, guiding the smart-fabric over his head. The visor hardened as it slid down over his face. He opened his cache, shaking his arm until the empty dataspike fell onto the floor, then shaking it some more until the fingernail-sized gold chip dropped out. He caught it, wrapping his hand protectively around the tiny object, and made himself walk towards the force-cage. He refused to think about what he was about to do, but found himself wondering about the female component in the beacon: was it conscious? If it was anything like the transit-kernels, whose pain Taro could feel first-hand when he and Nual were together in the shift, then it was insane, beyond sense or salvation.

  He stopped when he saw the bottom of the force-cage, his guts loosening and his heart thudding. Even through the v-suit, the power leaking from the shield was tickling the nape of his neck and making his teeth ache. He focused
on his hands. Do it quick and smooth, no hesitation.

  He turned on the suit’s shield and thrust his hand through the force-cage.

  He heard himself scream, but before he could register the pain he opened his hand, exposing the chip.

  Afterwards, he decided he must’ve imagined the tickling sensation across his hand – after all, he was wearing a v-suit and had hardened palms. Vy had said something about ‘strange attractors’, laughing when he mentioned the phrase, like it was a joke. It was no joke now; Taro could sense it for himself; he could sense the chip being drawn into the beacon.

  Something threw him back, hard.

  His mouth was open and his head hurt. His hand hurt too. His head and hand hurt because . . . because . . .

 

  He made himself close his mouth and open his eyes. No time to rest. He was too uncomfortable to sleep anyway, what with the headache and the pain in his hand, and the unpleasant squishy warmth lower down.

  Nual was bending over him. He managed a smile for her.

  She projected,

  Mind-speech didn’t allow for evasion. Nual picked up the edge of his returning memories and dived straight in. Taro rode the sudden, disorientating rush as she absorbed a brief summary of his insane mission to the Consensus and his encounter with the beacon. Then the cargo-hold, and the pain, came back. He realised what the unpleasant sensation around his groin was: he must’ve crapped himself when the beacon knocked him out. Well, nothing he could do about it now. Good job he was still wearing the v-suit.

  Nual’s voice was gentle in his head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Taro didn’t feel ready, and Nual didn’t look it, but they didn’t have much choice.