Splintered Suns

by Michael Cobley

  “Hmm, most interesting,” said Shogrel, lips curved in amusement.

  “What’s in there?” Dervla said.

  “This is something that needs to be seen,” Shogrel said, “rather than explained.” She ushered Dervla through. “It is quite safe.”

  Dervla ducked past the creeper fringe hanging over the opening. Inside, roseate light filtered around either side of a vestibule partition and the air bore a heavy sweetness. Shogrel’s assurances carried some weight yet Dervla kept her right hand resting near her blaster’s holster as she sidestepped the partition and entered the room proper.

  The scene before her was fascinating, dumbfounding and captivating all at once. The room was large and wedge-shaped, with the entrance at the narrow end of it. Further on into the wider area, circles of small dainty plants were laid out across the floor, most of them types of motile plants which Shogrel had pointed out during their brief journey. White and yellow flowers swayed gently, their leaves slowly furling and unfurling. There were also other plants arranged in similar rings with small creatures dotted around at regular intervals, sitting there, rocking gently back and forth. Luminous tubers clinging to the walls gave off roseate glows which mingled with the soft green radiance emanating from hanging liana blooms.

  Dervla suddenly realised that she was looking at a mandala, or the equivalent. The radial patterns of blooms and beasties were centred on a broad dais at the wider end of the room. On it was a large plinth supporting what seemed to be a large, low-backed chair upon which a substantial figure lounged, legs splayed, upper body laid back, almost horizontally. Flowery foliage engulfed the dais on all sides while glittery vapour plumed from an array of thick, bell-mouthed stalks grouped around the rear of the plinth like an ancient pipe organ. There was a curious background sound, like hundreds of faraway voices singing a continuous cluster of notes, but over that someone was wordlessly humming in a deep, rich voice. Dervla narrowed her eyes, sure there was something familiar in that voice.

  “Kref?” she said. “Kref, is that you up there?”

  The sprawled form stirred, the humming stopped and a big head came up. A slurred voice said:

  “Is someone there? Who is it?”

  “It’s the Space-Pope-Queen of the Galaxy!” she said. “Who d’ye think?”

  The occupant of the chair levered himself upright, bringing his face into the light—it was indeed Kref and his eyes were silver.

  “Derv!” The Henkayan’s broad face was creased in a permanent smile. “I’m so glad that you found me! You must have picked up the mind-vibrations of ultra-love that I’ve been radiating … it’s amazing that you arrived at exactly this moment! It’s almost prophetic.”

  “Kref,” she said, advancing through the floor’s circles of plants and animals. “You need to clear your head ’cos the captain and Ancil and Moleg are still missing …”

  “Wait!” Kref cried. “Stop moving, Derv, please!”

  Which was a redundant plea as she’d just noticed how all the motile plants and the creatures suddenly orientated themselves towards her in a distinctly unfriendly manner.

  “They feel the love that flows all around me in this place, Derv,” Kref said. “They’re very protective.”

  Dervla turned to Shogrel with an expression of wordless appeal. The half-plant, part-humanoid gave an amused nod, then addressed the Henkayan.

  “I could feel your mind-vibrations, Kref,” she said. “I heard your song of beauty and peace.”

  A look of euphoria lit up Kref’s craggy features. “Yes! And it’s all here, all in the pattern—you need to stand still, Dervla, and then you will become part of the pattern, too, part of the great song!”

  “You have admirably responsive senses, Kref,” said Shogrel. “I have seldom seen an inductee of the bliss chamber absorb and radiate the exudations of the fumaroles with such alacrity and vigour before.”

  With those silver eyes, Kref stared raptly back at Dervla’s guide.

  “It uplifted my feelings, made them burst into … into flames in my head and in my veins! It was incredible, my heart and my head and my hands on fire with big—huge—giant visions connecting everything!”

  “That is what the fumaroles do,” said Shogrel. “They feed you complex mind-altering vapours then adapt their output according to what they detect from your perspiration. The spiralling crescendo is exquisite.”

  Kref seem baffled. “But I was sending vibrations and singing to the patterns of flowers and little creatures …”

  Shogrel nodded. “Only after the chamber infused your lungs and your blood with the fumes of unlocking and epiphany.” She stretched out her hands from which loops of blue flowers dangled. “Come and take these—they will make all things clear.”

  Reluctantly, Kref clambered down from the plinth and came over, warily yet at the same time apparently drawn towards Shogrel. She smiled. “Brave, honest Kref—all of the Steel Forest has heard your song, all that could be sung has been.”

  As she spoke she took his big hands in hers and in a moment the flower bracelets were around his wrists. He was about to say something but his eyelids fluttered and closed—Dervla was half-afraid that he would topple to the floor, then his eyes blinked open, this time with no trace of silver. He yawned and his gaze fell upon Dervla.

  “Derv! Hey, you are here! Had a weird dream. You were in it.” He grinned. “And you’re here … but where’re the others? I remember we were running from something really bad, then I got stung … and now I’ve woken up. Derv, what happened?”

  “Everyone got separated, Kref,” she said. “Some of these plant gases and insect stings can make you drowsy and groggy. You just happened to find the motherlode! Myself and Shogrel are searching for the others …” She saw him regard Shogrel with a frown. “Shogrel is—well, she lives here, er, and has done for a long time, and she’s friendly—even gave us these blue flowers which ward off the risky plants and insects.”

  “There are others like myself scattered throughout the Steel Forest,” said Shogrel. “My blue flowers tell them that the bearer is not an enemy. You were lucky enough to find your way to this chamber, Kref—no direct harm would befall you here.” She regarded Dervla. “Soon after we reached this place, I began to pick up impressions and whispers about other intruders, also warnings. One appears to be under attack by one of the more dissociated of the forest inhabitants. This one is … hemmed in? Surrounded? I am unsure but we should track them down without delay.”

  Dervla nodded, then glanced at Kref. The big Henkayan was gazing at the flowery bracelets, brooding and sombre, then his features brightened into a smile. “Hey, Derv, all these little flowers look a bit like me!”

  “Mine, too, Kref. It’s part of how they work.” She laid a hand against his broad upper arm. “We have to go rescue the others—are you ready?”

  “Sure, Derv, just say the word. But I lost my rifle somewhere—all I have left is this little popgun.”

  It was a 45-calibre autopistol with a stick magazine and an oversized grip to suit the generous Henkayan hand. Dervla smiled.

  “Oh, well, it’ll have to do, eh?”

  “Hopefully such weaponry will not be necessary,” said Shogrel, pointing rightwards along the T-junction. “Along here is an auxiliary access stair to the deck above. Follow me.”

  They climbed to find that the new deck was similar to the hazardous areas adjoining Shogrel’s home territory. The lighting was low and predominantly red or a rich purple, the foliage was denser. He and the insects were greater in number. But the protective aura generated by the blue flowers managed to keep Dervla and Kref safe as they pushed through the undergrowth with Shogrel in the lead.

  They found Pyke at the end of a red corridor, barricaded into a small room, besieged by gator-dogs, creatures like bird-sized dinosaurs, and things like snakes with flowerbulb-like heads. From a dozen paces back along the corridor Dervla couldn’t see him but she could hear his loud and florid cursing. She suggested just headin
g along and bringing him out, but Shogrel shook her head.

  “The shepherding awareness of this area no longer perceives unexpected events and intruders with any kind of rational objectivity,” she said. “Its reactions are belligerent, and the level of raw hostility directed towards the room’s occupant are such that my ward-flowers may not be sufficient to protect you.”

  “We could shoot our way …”

  “You could, but then every plant and creature near here would be turned against you both.” Shogrel spread her hands. “Your ends would be agonising and final.”

  Kref shuddered. “I’ll not be pot-shotting anything, then.”

  Dervla frowned, realising that, despite Pyke’s profanities, she’d heard no gunfire, no energy weapon sounds.

  “The awareness of this place,” she said. “Was it always so violent?”

  “Not at all,” said Shogrel. “I remember Pixif well—he had a mild, generous spirit.”

  “So the raw hostility you detected is very likely a response to something our companion is doing, yes?”

  Shogrel thought for a moment. “I hear no sounds of weapons fire yet he is still managing to fend off their attacks and thereby stir up their anger.”

  “Shogrel,” said Dervla. “Would you be able to reach the end of the corridor on your own?”

  “No. The mood of the devolved awareness is a swirling cloud of suspicion and fear coupled with a burning detestation of any interlopers. Even the position we occupy here is not safe.”

  “Not much grey area, then,” said Dervla, despairing.

  “Shame Ans isn’t with us,” said Kref. “He has a nade for every occasion!”

  For a moment no one spoke, then Shogrel raised one pale hand up to her head and pressed her fingers into the dense weave of tendrils just behind and below her right ear. When she withdrew them, she was holding what appeared to be a large green seedpod. She held it out so that they could see.

  “There is a way to send the awareness of this place into a temporary stupor, allowing you to extricate your companion.” Shogrel regarded them both sombrely. “Understand that I only have one of these—it took me a long time to braid and nurture it, and if we use it now we may regret doing so later.”

  “How long will this sleepytime last?” Dervla said.

  “A short period. Not long but long enough.”

  Dervla laughed. ”Okay, try this …” and with her wrist dermal timer she counted out ten seconds. “As long as that or a lot longer?”

  Shogrel smiled, closed her eyes for a moment then opened them again. “I estimate seven and half of those periods.”

  Dervla glanced at Kref. “Seventy-five seconds to get to the end of the corridor, break whatever barricade Pyke’s behind, drag his arse out of there and be back here before the angries wake up. What d’ya think?”

  “S’cutting it fine, Derv.”

  “Well, with three of us it shouldn’t be that hard.”

  Shogrel shook her head. “Unfortunately, I cannot accompany you—the decoction that this will deliver would have the same soporific effect on me. Like all these forms, I, too, am of the forest.”

  Dervla sighed, and Kref shrugged. “S’all right, Derv, I’ll just have to be twice as brawny as usual!”

  “And I’ll be right there with you!” She looked at Shogrel. “Okay, better do what you have to do.”

  Their guide gave a single nod, cupped the dark green pod in both her pale grey hands and raised it to her lips. She kissed it gently, murmured to it, whispered strange sibilant words to it then, facing the corridor in question, held it out before her on her open palm. Dervla had thought that Shogrel was going to lob it like some kind of grenade—instead she continued with the flow of whispers. Nonplussed, Dervla was about to ask what the hold-up was when suddenly the gleaming green pod began to unfurl from either end.

  Dervla stared, entranced. There was a glowing inside the pod, hints of something glassy and shiny. Then the pod shell unfurled into two parts, two gauzy, veiny, delicately cell-patterned wings. Both were part of a strangely elegant insect, its head and thorax murky and opaque, as if fashioned from smoked glass, while its abdomen gave off an amber glow.

  “When the Quietener takes flight,” Shogrel said, “both of you need to follow directly behind. Stand next to me now and be ready.”

  They did as instructed. Dervla was fascinated by the bizarre insect whose glassy abdomen now seemed to be swelling with a rich golden glow. As she watched, the gold radiance welled up into the thorax and filtered out to the roots of the wings, lighting up their veins and patterns.

  “Time to fly,” murmured Shogrel and the insect leaped away from her outstretched hand.

  With such long, flexible wings, the Quietener flew like a slow moth, and with every beat of its wings fine ribbony trails of golden motes sprayed out to either side. The insect’s flight was sedate enough for Dervla and Kref to follow at a steady pace, anxiously keyed up in case of an attack. But just as Shogrel had said, inactivity spread wherever the golden mist fell: aggressive long-stemmed plants wilted, other insects retreated to dark crannies, and all the beasties that hopped, crawled, wriggled and scampered across the mossy deck slumped down where they stood. Chemical slumber reigned.

  When the Quietener insect reached the end of the corridor it gracefully turned and headed back the way it had come. Dervla and Kref wasted no time, went over to the last doorway and began kicking and shoving at the debris which had been piled against it from the inside. At last they managed to tear away a mass of wire entangled with rootlets and push aside a lashed-up barrier of rods and struts. Torchlight revealed a dishevelled figure crouched in one corner, holding out a hand. It was Pyke, shouting and babbling incoherently, yet around him was a curved heap of small dead creatures.

  “Kref, he’s holding the crystal,” she muttered. “I’ll get his attention on this side, you tackle him from the other—and immobilise that arm!”

  Kref nodded and they moved towards him.

  “… came at me with the beast faces!” Pyke was raving. “Masks of skagging beasts—but I slapped ’em down, skagging crushed ’em …”

  “Brannan, it’s us!” Dervla said. “Bran, it’s Dervla …”

  “… used their faces, too, aye, and their voices! … stinking Legacy bastard! … I’ll burn him! …”

  She glanced at Kref. They exchanged a nod and then lunged forward. Pyke yelled and struck out with what was definitely the crystal, still in its leather sheath but with the cover flapping loose. Dervla dodged the deadly blow and in the next moment Kref piled in, wrapping a big arm around Pyke, trapping one arm and grabbing the other with his free hand. Pyke cried out and the crystal fell from nerveless fingers. Dervla pounced, snatched it up and carefully closed it up, fastening the ties.

  “Right, hold onto him tight while we get out of here!”

  She rushed to the doorway, tore some more junk away and slipped out into the corridor. All seemed quiet so she beckoned Kref to follow, now carrying a dazed and confused Pyke over his shoulder. Even as he emerged, Dervla saw the tiny shapes of insects rising into the air.

  “Run!” she yelled.

  The deadly red section of corridor was only about a dozen paces long but, as they dashed madly along it, each step felt like a raucous hammerblow guaranteed to wake every poisonous creature within earshot. Shogrel was waiting at the next turnoff, which led into somewhat more neutral territory. Once they were round the corner, Shogrel scattered a handful of pale blue seeds across the width of the main passage. “A means of temporarily repelling any pursuers,” she said. “Now, these are for your friend.”

  She handed Dervla another set of protective blue-flower chains. She crouched and a moment later Pyke was wearing them around his head and his wrists.

  Oh, for a cam to record this moment, Dervla thought as the flower-crowned Pyke opened his eyes and looked groggily about him.

  “Skaggin’ hell,” he groaned.

  “Feeling a bit rough?” she asked.
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  “Feel like I’ve been puked up by something huge with rocks in its gut—I’m bashed all over …” He winced as he explored and prodded his torso and limbs. “Bruises everywhere …”

  “Remember what happened after we followed Ustril into the wreck?” Dervla said.

  “It’s a bit … hazy. I remember we got in through a hatch …” He frowned. “There was some shooting, Kref bawling at something, then it’s just a blur. Then I must have been knocked out ’cos I had some really skagged-up dreams …” That was when he finally noticed the blue-flower bracelets. “Wait, what?”

  “Bran, just leave them on,” Dervla said. “They’re shielding us from the fumes and the fauna of the forest.” Dervla beckoned to Shogrel. “This is Shogrel—she is an inhabitant of the Steel Forest and without her help there’s no way we could’ve rescued you.”

  Pyke offered a wary smile and a nod to the woman of leaves and roots. “Erm … exactly how long has it been since we entered the wreck?”

  “Nearly three hours,” Dervla said. “Most of that time, you, me and Kref—and presumably Ancil and Moleg—have been kablonged out of our brains on a cocktail of psychotropic plant fumes and hallucinogenic insect venom …”

  “So where’s Ans and Moleg?”

  “Not found them yet,” she admitted, glancing at Shogrel. “Have you been detecting any hints from the forest or nearby denizens, any clues about where our friends might be?”

  Shogrel seemed thoughtful for a moment. “I shall extend my senses.”

  The forest-dweller fell silent and stood there, arms at her sides, with her root-woven head swaying gently from side to side, eyes wide but unfocused. Dervla looked back at Pyke and shrugged, but a moment later Shogrel straightened and turned towards the others.

  “Strange emanations are pulsing through the webways,” she said. “There was a clash with intruders resulting in violence and terrible destruction—some have been eliminated, others have been cornered—possibly. This strife is happening a distance away and two decks above, so the impressions are confused. Either some intruders have been backed into a corner, much as your captain was, or some intruders have been taken prisoner. But if these outsiders have been captured, what is the source of so much anger and discord?”