Splintered Suns

by Michael Cobley

  Dervla grimaced. Dear god, she thought, I bloody hate heists, hate the darkness and the cold and all this tippy-toeing crud!

  She shivered. With the last rosy glows of sunset sinking on the horizon, the outdoor temperature was already plummeting and she could feel the light touch of a breeze. It would be chilly later on which, under other circumstances, would be preferable to the engulfing heat of daytime Cawl-Vesh. And as she sat there, willing Ancil and Moleg to move it along a bit faster, she still kept her senses alert for a scrape or a footfall, the slightest sound which might indicate that Brannan Pyke was about to saunter in as if he owned the place.

  He said he’d meet us here, so where the hell is he?

  But the only sounds were the faint hiss of the coolant jet and the creaks that came from back inside the Tower—from a crate which Kref was sitting on as he kept watch at a nearby, drape-hung window. He was using a primitive sliding telescope he’d found in a box of dusty junk in the room next door. In his big hands it looked like a dainty toy.

  It was turning out to be a stroke of luck that this entire floor of Jul-Tegach Tower was unoccupied. When they had left the old maintenance shaft on the sixth floor, they almost literally ran into a mixed group of Izlak and Sedlu, and this was despite assurances that only the bottom five floors had been rented out. Perhaps they’d caught them moving in—the Ongians were carrying bundles, bags and belongings into one of the offices, with others plodding back along the darkened corridors to pick up more, it seemed. Dervla and the crew were themselves hauling around holdalls and kitbags full of heavy equipment which made the hiding, dodging and sneaking through the shadows an especially nerve-jangling experience.

  There had been two smaller groups on the next floor, sticking mainly to their office encampments. Most of the lighting there was out, too, an aid to their furtive undertaking, except for the moment when Ancil tripped over a cluster of pole-like objects left leaning against a wall along from an open, glowing door. When they clattered echoingly to the floor everyone froze, and Ancil whispered a curse as he tried to shrink back into the gloom. Voice, footsteps—then a small furry creature had leaped out from behind some square baskets and trotted along to the doorway where it was snatched up by a blanket-wrapped Izlak child who went back inside and closed the door.

  Almost laughing with relief, they had hurried along to the stairs, up to a set of heavy, locked doors which Ancil had swinging open in about ten seconds. Once through, Dervla had them relock and bolt the doors and heap a few pieces of furniture behind them. After that hectic arrival they had unpacked some cutting tools from one of the kitbags, heating units to raise the temperature of the fibresin wall and monomol lines to slice through the weakened building material. Once through the first barrier they employed the underframe of a sturdy couch as an improvised gantry between the tower and the ledge so that Ancil and Moleg could commence their work on the second.

  Sitting there, Dervla felt the deepening chill of the night really starting to bite, yet she was overcome by a sudden, cavernous yawn. She cursed herself inwardly but knew this was just what happened during these slow phases, when tedium and frustration vied to club you over the head. Although it looked as if Ancil and Moleg were about three-quarters of the way around the big stone block, it still felt as if it had taken forever and would go on taking forever.

  And, right there, amid the tense quietness of maddening delay, Dervla heard the creak of a crate as Kref shifted his posture and under his breath said a single word:

  “Raven!”

  The name went through her like a shock. She looked round at Kref who then reacted to her reaction, his features full of anxious guilt.

  “I heard that—is it her?” Dervla swung her legs back into the building and stalked over to the window. “Is that bitch actually here?”

  “Er … I don’t know … I think I saw …”

  “Just gimme the scope … c’mon …”

  Resigned, Kref gave it up then stood to let Dervla take his seat. The crate creaked a little under her substantially lesser weight as she leaned forward, head between the heavy musty drapes, telescope raised to one eye.

  “What am I looking for?” she said.

  “Erm, apartment building straight across, third floor windows, all lit up …”

  Sure enough, there it was, a set of three tall windows, drapes pulled back to reveal a bright room inhabited by a cluster of figures, a couple lounging on divans while the others stood around. Bottles were being drunk from, two-bowl pipes were being smoked and substances were being inhaled. And there, amid the carouse, she stood. Raven Kaligari, merc for hire, black-hearted, bloodsucking viper queen. Three times they’d encountered her and her goonlings and every time they’d ended up losing money and/or cargo and/or reputation. The third time the entire crew would have been sold to slave traders but for one of the Kiskashin slavers turning out to be an old acquaintance of Oleg. Dervla swore then that she would shoot the vermin-vixen on sight the next time they met, and now it looked like a real possibility. She stared across the intervening distance—just then Raven was laughing and seemingly conversing with a tall man half hidden by hanging drapes.

  With a soundless snarl, she got up from the crate, took Kref’s big hand in hers and slapped the telescope into his wide palm.

  “Why is she crudding well here?” she muttered, half to herself. “Can’t be a coincidence, must be linked to the Van Graes job somehow …”

  “She’s a bad gronzig,” said Kref. “Worst gronzig I ever seen …”

  Dervla hurried back to the hole, ducked her head outside and said, “How much skagging longer?”

  Ancil and Moleg paused the cutting then looked at her. “It’s nearly done, just another minute or two—what’s wrong?”

  “New player in town,” she said. “Raven Kaligari.”

  In the space of an instant Ancil’s face went from mildly perplexed to wide-eyed nausea shading into panic.

  “Here? … she’s here? … Where is … how could …why?”

  “Your guess is probably as paranoid as mine.”

  “She branded me, Derv!—With a branding iron. Took three go-rounds in the autodoc to fix …”

  “You weren’t the only one as I recall.”

  “… mad as a sack of rigel-cats, I mean seriously straitjacket- ready …”

  “We get the picture! Now back to work so that we’re all set when Pyke finally gets here.”

  By Dervla’s timer it took one minute and forty-nine seconds for them to finish the cut, attach the battery-powered a-grav web to the block, and extract it from the museum wall. In a cradle of straps hanging from the taut cable, the masonry block was then guided across the gap and into the Tower chamber where a heap of scavenged bedding awaited to silence its landing. The a-grav web could only reduce the block’s effective mass by forty per cent for nine seconds before the one-shot device self-slagged, but that proved adequate. The block touched down on the cushioning gently, almost gracefully—then the battery spat sparks and the block fell over with a muffled thud accompanied by puffs of dust.

  Ancil and Moleg, meanwhile, wasted no time, and were already just inside the freshly made hole. Kref then stepped onto the gantry, carrying a couple of kitbags, eyes fixed on a point about ten feet inside the museum as he crossed the gap in less than two strides. Kref was not keen on heights. Dervla followed on behind.

  “What have we got?” she whispered as she crouched and ducked through.

  “Big empty blank wall,” said Ancil. “And our brand-new entrance.”

  The air in the museum had an odd fusty taint to it. The main lighting was off and the tall window shutters and drapes had been drawn. Only a few security and glowing signs shed any illumination, together providing just enough low radiance to make the hole stand out. Without knowing how many guards there might be or where they patrolled, Dervla reckoned that some kind of camouflage would still be prudent.

  “Any movable exhibits big enough to hide it?” she said.


  “Most of the pieces are made of stone or pottery, iron or brass,” said Ancil. “And all the decent-sized display cabinets are made from some dense pebblecrete composite and they weigh a ton. Shifting them is beyond us.”

  “What about paintings and tapestries?”

  “No paintings, but there is a huge tapestry—it’s hanging along the full length of the corridor outside. Might be noticed if we moved it, though.”

  Dervla took a small nightscope from one of her belt pouches and scanned the room, determined to find a way to conceal the hole, not least because it was supposed to be their escape route. Then she saw it, and when she told Ancil what to do, he gave a nodding smile of realisation. Without delay he, Kref and Moleg got to work and minutes later a large decorative carpet extracted from beneath one of the large cabinets now hung on the side wall, perfectly masking the hole. Shoulder-high plinths, borrowed from a couple of corner alcoves, now flanked the carpet, lending it a certain importance.

  “Good,” said Dervla. “Now, let’s find that vault.”

  Going by the pocket locationer, the museum overseer’s office was on this level, to the rear of the building. The main corridor was laid out in a U-shape off which all the exhibition rooms sprouted, as did a passage leading to the overseer’s office. Keeping to the carpeted section, they crept along in the gloom, following the corridor round to the long rear stretch with Dervla leading the way. She slowed the others with a gesture as they drew near the second corner, then carefully peeked round only to pull back slightly—a patrolling museum guard had emerged from the side passage and was strolling away towards the far end.

  “One guard on foot,” she whispered. “Bound to be a second along the branch corridor. Ans, you ready?”

  Ancil gave a wicked grin and produced an innocuous looking squat can shape wrapped in black tape and sporting a number of short, stubby antennae.

  “What’s this?” said Moleg.

  “Dead-air bomb,” Ancil said. “Nullifies all sound within a five-metre diameter …”

  “I thought it was going to be a six-metre diameter,” Dervla muttered.

  “Problems with the cell-discharge profile so I went for a happy medium, five-metre bubble for forty seconds.” He then took out a more conventionally shaped grenade, a small black egg with a white stripe around its middle, and handed it to Moleg.

  “Ah, stunbomb,” Moleg said.

  “Quality example of the nade-maker’s art,” said Ancil. “You’ll be following up with that about a half-second after I lob the dead-air special—wham, bam, two guards out cold, and all with nothing louder than a cough.”

  Dervla stole another brief look round the corner, saw the guard returning from his expedition to the corridor’s end, yawning as he turned out of sight along the side passage. She glanced back at the others. “No time to waste—let’s go!”

  As they hurried along to the passage entrance, Dervla could hear the guards talking, just two voices—Good, means they should be standing close to each other, easy target. When they reached the corner she tapped Ancil and Moleg on the shoulders and said, “Give it yer best shot, boys!”

  In unison both men stepped out from the wall, faced along the side corridor and lobbed the grenades. Dervla heard one voice start to say, “Hey, you …!” but the soft pop of the dead-air bomb killed all sound. Half a second later she saw a flash and felt a tremor underfoot, all in complete silence—then she saw the look of surprise and fear in Ancil’s face.

  “Kref!” he said hoarsely. “You’re up!”

  Dervla moved over next to Ancil and saw it all for herself. One of the guards was lying motionless in a crumpled heap by the door at the end of the passage. The second guard, however, was still conscious and struggling to regain his feet. Most Pekyr were slender and wiry but this one was broad-shouldered, brawny and bald, with hands as big as shovels.

  “I was expecting regular-sized guards,” Ancil said. “Not the side of a mountain come to life!”

  Before Dervla could respond, Kref was already past them and clumping along the side passage. “Don’t worry, Derv,” he said, deep voice booming. “I’ll take care of—”

  His voice was cut off as he entered the dead-air bomb’s silent zone. Ancil chuckled.

  “There he goes—we’ll be through that door in no time.”

  The big brawny guard had only got as far as crouching on one knee but as soon as Kref came within reach the guard sprang into action, launching a massive punch at Kref’s face. The blow connected and Kref spun like a huge slow top, fell against the wall and slid to the floor. All the time the guard was shouting in bellicose fury, all in perfect silence—then he paused and looked round at Dervla, Moleg and Ancil, drew a studded baton and brandished it, while grinning horribly. It was one of the weirdest things Dervla had ever experienced, this huge figure soundlessly snarling, shaking its fist and advancing as the three of them fell back from the corridor junction.

  Suddenly the guard’s voice was audible, to himself as well as Dervla and the others, a sign that he’d emerged from the dead-air bomb’s sphere of influence. His grin widened, exposing long yellowed teeth, and let out a burst of nasty, throaty laughter … which turned into a puzzled grunt. Without warning, he fell flat on his face with a painful crash, revealing Kref, who had grabbed him by the ankles and pulled savagely. The huge guard’s howls went silent as Kref dragged him back into the silence, kicked him in the side, smashed him over the head with a nearby chair, then smashed him over the head again with what was left of the chair.

  By which time the dead-air bomb had finally expired and the only sounds were Kref’s growling and the faint wheezy moans of the defeated guard.

  “Is he done?” said Dervla as she led Ancil and Moleg down the side corridor.

  Kref nudged the insensible adversary with the toe of his boot and gave a judicious nod. “He’s done.”

  “Good, fine and dandy,” she said, glancing at Ancil. “Now, would you kindly get that door open?”

  “My pleasure, won’t be more than—”

  “Stop right there!” came a loud order. “Stop in the name of the City!”

  Dervla cast her eyes upward, muttered, “Give me strength!” and turned to see a lone Council guard standing back at the corridor junction, aiming some kind of long-barrelled weapon at them. She took a step in his direction, which prompted him to jab the rifle aggressively at her, despite the nervousness shining in his features.

  “Stop, nobody move! Er … put your hands up!”

  Dervla heard choked laughter from Ancil, and thought she might join in.

  “Okay, which is it?” she said. “Stand still, or raise our hands?”

  “Well, just …”

  And just then a figure in a black frock coat stepped out behind the guard, kicked his legs away, grabbed the rifle out of flailing hands and dealt him a sharp rap on the skull with the butt. It was Pyke.

  “Well, that was getting far too boring for my liking, I can tell you!”

  Ancil laughed in surprise, Kref grinned and a pleased Moleg nodded. Dervla had to work hard to keep her great relief from showing. Couldn’t have the bastard getting any smugger now, could she.

  “You know,” she said, “there’s a difference between taking your time and being relaxed about taking your time!”

  “Delays, darlin,’” Pyke said cheerily. “Delay, delays, delays …” He paused to wink at Ancil, “… delays! But enough ancient history—let’s crack on and get into that vault, eh?”

  Dervla regarded him for a moment, slightly puzzled at his eager demeanour, then told Ancil—“Go to it.”

  Ancil got down to work. Dervla was about to ask Pyke where his pod had landed and how he had made it into the museum but he spoke first.

  “Hope you have some decent weaponry in one of those bags,” he said, still smiling. “I heard that guard talking to someone on a comm link before he made his entrance.”

  Just then Ancil got to his feet, gave the overseer’s office door a light push a
nd it swung easily inwards. “Open!—Says me!”

  “Fine work,” Pyke said and strolled inside. Ancil and Moleg were close behind him but Kref paused. His big, craggy face was troubled.

  “Is the chief okay?” he muttered.

  “He had a long, tough journey to get here on time,” she said quietly. “A good night’s sleep and he’ll be right as rain. Now, though, better break out the firepower—we may have unfriendly company soon.”

  The big Henkayan brightened at this, picked up the kitbags and trooped inside, with Dervla bringing up the rear.

  The museum overseer’s office was lined with wooden bookcases, filing cabinets, wall-to-ceiling shelves full of boxes, as well as a couple of glass display cases. The overseer’s desk was wide and ornate, made from some red-resin composite striated with dark blue fibres and inset with carved panels of black stone. Behind it were tall, unshuttered windows which Dervla regarded with satisfaction—Plan B was looking good.

  The overseer’s vault sat in an alcove in the corner diagonally opposite the way in—Ancil was already on his knees by the new lock by the time Dervla got there, connecting up a web of detects linked to his resonance cracker. Pyke was leaning against the vault, wearing a faintly mocking smile which didn’t change when Dervla went up to him and poked him in the shoulder.

  “What’s with you?” she said.

  His smile didn’t waver. “What do you mean?”

  “Just not quite your usual gabby self.”

  Pyke reached inside his crimson-lined frock coat and brought out what looked like a fat silvery pen which he passed to her.

  “This the DNA key?” she said.

  “Twist the top off,” he said.

  Like a pen, a cap piece clicked and came away. Revealed was a tapering white stem ending in a bevelled tip—the stem seemed to be enclosed in a glass shell but, when Dervla brought up a finger to touch it, Pyke stayed her hand.

  “That’s a tiny stasis field, keeps the modified genetic material from breaking down.” Looking at it, he smiled. “The last living descendant of the biovault’s builder was a Henkari called Runken Burlet—I had to carry his dying, bleeding body halfway across a murky city by night, on a backwater planet at the edge of the Yamanon Domain. Kept him alive, even though we were being hunted, reached the house where a team of offworld charity medics were studying local diseases and the like—got them to create a small plug of readable genetic material.” He took back the DNA key and replaced the cap. “Van Graes gave me the key receptacle before I went off on my quest—the doctors did a superb job with the readable key.”