Splintered Suns

by Michael Cobley

“You can count on it.”

  Brief nods of farewell all round before the Gomedran retraced his steps back to the serving door. Then Tiselio led Pyke over to an unremarkable door in the corner of the kitchen which opened to reveal a steep, dingy staircase. Here we go, he thought as she leaped up the stairs like a gazelle. Keen not to be left behind, he closed the door and vaulted up after her.

  There were two flights between each floor and he was starting to breathe a little heavier by the time they reached the landing between the first and second floors. Each main landing had a narrow hallway with three or four doors, rooms for staff or friends of the owner, Gosk. It was a windowless ascent lit only by slow tallow candles shedding just enough radiance to see by. As they reached the second floor Pyke was about to make some flippant remark about pausing for a rest and calling room service when they heard a muffled crash from downstairs, followed by shouts and cursing. Their pursuers had broken through into the kitchen.

  Aching limbs forgotten, they raced up the remaining steps. From the head of the stairs they emerged into an attic full of a jumble of furniture, crates, spinning wheels and an endless selection of domestic detritus.

  “I hope you remember where you put it,” Pyke said.

  “It’s not in here,” said Tiselio, picking a way through the dusty clutter. “This is just the garret—Gosk keeps really important items in the loft tower.”

  She paused near the end of the garret and tugged on a length of grubby rope—a section of the raftered ceiling hinged down, along with some wooden steps. From behind them came the clatter of boots climbing the stairs.

  “Quick, in you get,” Tiselio said. “Magni’s sitting on the nearly top shelf—you can get out through the skylight. Now, go! I’ll pile some of this junk over at the top of the stairs—hurry!”

  Pyke obeyed with alacrity, scrambling up the steep steps. He coughed on disturbed dust, heard the trapdoor shut with a thud below him, then got his first proper look at the loft tower. Well, not so much “tower” as a generously proportioned chimney flue. There was meagre daylight coming from somewhere up high, revealing shadowy levels of shelves crammed with indistinct shapes. He climbed the iron ladder past unmarked boxes, wrapped packages, odd-looking shoes with elevated heels and soles, a group of five puppets adorned with demon-like masks, the innards of what might have been an elaborate clock … until finally he reached the top shelves, lit additionally by grey daylight filtering through the small square panes of a skylight, or, rather, through the layer of grime and birdshit that coated the outer surfaces.

  Magni sat on the penultimate shelf, a stuffed wild boar, dyed blue and ugly as sin and not quite as large as he was expecting. It was mounted on a scratched, plain wooden base so he hooked one arm underneath its bristly underbelly, then pushed up another couple of steps to reach the skylight. A simple peg-on-a-string was keeping it shut and with that removed it opened easily and without so much as a creak, proof of regular use. He climbed still further, poking his head and shoulders out into the air and found himself taking in the entire city of Granah in one grand vista. It looked dirty and hazy from the thousands of smoke trails but it was an arresting view nonetheless.

  Better shake a leg and do the deed, Pyke thought as he clambered out of the loft tower. Dig that skaggin’ vial out, smash it with my cudgel and that should be it, or it bloody better be!

  He could see now that a weather-beaten shack had been built against the loft tower. Its sloping roof had a flat peak wide enough to allow a person to stand on and get in the correct position to descend the ladder that was bolted to the side of the shack. With his right arm still hooked between the boar’s legs, he grabbed the rusty ladder and, rung by rung, climbed down. He was only a couple of rungs from the bottom when he felt a sharp point prod his side, just above the hip. His heart sank as a woman’s voice said:

  “Stop where you are and do not look around!—now hold out your arm … no time-wasting, you know which arm!”

  Pyke grimaced in silence as he extended his right arm so that his captors could remove the stuffed boar. Going by the footsteps there was more than one gathered about him, five, perhaps six.

  “Is this it, Commander?” said the same woman.

  A moment or two of silence—Pyke could imagine some helmed officer turning the mascot over in his hands, maybe smirking in satisfaction.

  But it was a woman’s voice that responded.

  “That is, just as Dalyak’s accomplice described …”

  The commander of these rooftop prowlers was a woman … and there was something in her voice, something about it which made Pyke take notice.

  “And if we look closely at the neck … see, Lieutenant, the stitches are loose so if I pry them apart, like that—and there it is!”

  “Shamaya be praised—the Emperor is saved! Now that we have the vial, what about him? Open his throat and leave the body to the crows?”

  “We’ll take him back to the palace. The Shylan Shields are sure to round up his companions along with the rest, so with a little prisoner trading we should find out exactly who is behind the conspiracy.”

  Pyke was pushed up against the side of the shack, face rubbing against wind-worn wood as his hands were tied. But his thoughts were a maddening whirl of doubt and fear and a horrible sequence of might-be, couldn’t-be, musn’t-be. And as he was pulled back and guided along the flat lower roof, he got his first view of his captors, female fighters in light body armour, leather helms with half-masks, and their officers, both garbed in similar armour although one had silver flashes on her helmet and her shoulder guards.

  “Hey, Commander Boss-Lady! We need to …”

  The trooper behind cursed and kicked Pyke’s legs from under him. He sprawled forward but rolled into it and managed to get up onto his knees.

  “We need to talk, Commander, about the conspiracy.”

  Two troopers jumped him, smacked him in the face as they forced him upright. But the commander had turned and was coming over. Her face below the eyes was also concealed by a dark silk mask.

  “What do you have to say?” she said, and every word rang in his ears and in his heart.

  “First, let me see your face,” he said, feeling inevitability close around him like the jaws of a trap.

  “Impertinence and lack of respect,” said the lieutenant, standing near the commander.

  “Yes, but perhaps we can get him to reveal who was paying who …”

  The commander pulled aside the silken veil, and for a second Pyke could only stare—then he laughed for a few moments, a raw and broken sound. Then he bellowed out to the sky.

  “Legacy! Bastard machine! … Bastard! … Machine! …”

  Standing there, dressed in well-used, ribbed armour shaded in dull browns and dark blue, it was, without a doubt, Dervla. Her eyes held not a flicker of recognition, only the angry disgust that a loyal officer would have for an enemy of her Emperor.

  “Should have known,” she said, replacing the veil. “Gag him and bring him!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Pyke, on the planet Ong, the wreck of the Mighty Defender, bridge section

  “Late?” Pyke said. “How can I be late for something I know nothing about, in a place I scarcely knew even existed until recently?”

  The craggy-faced elderly man made a dismissive gesture. “Hah, that’s neither here nor there! When the event-flow determines that you present yourself at the appointed place and time, the onus is upon you, whether you like it or not. Effects will not be denied their causes—understand?”

  Pyke tried to get his bearings. It seemed that they’d arrived inside some sandy-floored hollow covered over by an expanse of rusted, crumpled metal. And he’d been plunged into a confrontation with a cryptic octogenarian.

  “Oh, yes,” said Pyke. “And when I say ‘yes,’ I mean not in the slightest.”

  The elderly fellow gave him a pitying look. “I can see that you are still disorientated from the portal translocation. Perhaps you should sit down,
relax, enjoy some refreshment—I have filner tea and jomby biscuits if that’s to your taste. And in a little while when you are more composed and evenly tempered I shall tell you about the Mosaic and all the other hazards that await you on your way to the bridge.”

  He turned to go, but paused to speak to Dervla.

  “Dervla, dear lady, prevail upon your boisterous captain, encourage in him a serene outlook and a courteous disposition …”

  “Wait,” she said. “You know my name?”

  The old man smiled and smoothed his muttonchop whiskers. “Why, yes, I know all your names.” He gazed around at the others, naming them one by one:

  “Ancil the Cunning …”

  “That’s the name, don’t wear it out!”

  “Kref the Strong …”

  “Hey, that’s good—Chief, can I keep that name?”

  “… and Moleg the Mysterious.”

  “Occasionally,” said Moleg. “What do we call you?”

  The old man placed one hand theatrically upon his chest. “I have the honour to be Avrax Hokajil, senior conjecturist and inventor.” He gave a slight but gracious bow. “I’ll be over in my hut when you’re ready to talk, Captain.”

  So saying, he strolled away, across the humped sandy area to a makeshift hut patched together from a wide variety of scavenged panels and tiles. This low-rent residence leaned against the inside of what Pyke now realised was the inside of a wreck’s hull. A canted section of bulkhead formed another wall to this strange cave, and oddly enough had a single door in it to which a foot-worn path led.

  “Pretty strange, eh?” said Dervla.

  Pyke nodded. “And he definitely said something about us heading to the bridge?”

  “He certainly did.”

  Pyke sat down on a mound of sand and tried to take stock. When they began all this, they were merely chasing down some treasures for their employer, Van Graes, but then Raven and her henchlings got involved, along with the weird crystal that was both a mind-trap and part of some ancient, mysterious device. Then the Sendrukan, Ustril, helped them find the drive section among the trackless wastes, but then she went off on her own mad mission, leaving the rest of them to stagger and muddle through the mind-bending corridors of the Steel Forest. Finding the transfer portal let them move directly from the Steel Forest to here—but what and when was “here,” exactly?

  Going by what little their Steel Forest guide, Shogrel, had said, they had at last reached the forward section of the ancient Arraveyne ship, the Mighty Defender. She had also mentioned this mosaic and that it would show them pasts that never happened and presents and futures that couldn’t be trusted. Pyke wasn’t sure of the twig-creature’s meaning but the place they’d now arrived at did not look promising.

  This hollow was partially inside the wreck of the forward section. Wind-blown sand had worked its way in over the many, many centuries since the ancient vessel ended up here. An uneven gap on one side let in a wide shaft of dazzling morning sunlight, even though it had been after dark when they entered the drive section. The ceiling of this rusty shelter was fairly high and looked like a section of decking which had somehow survived the destructive forces of the crash-landing. Perhaps this had once been a standby hold down near the underhull. Frowning, Pyke got to his feet, strode over to the sunny exit, stepped out and walked a few paces away to take a look. Ancil followed, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “Some sight, uh, Chief?”

  “Yeah—it’s literally a gigantic heap of junk!”

  The forward/bridge section had clearly turned over laterally during its descent—the upper decks were crushed and mangled, gouged and hammered into compacted ruin. But at some point during that long crash-landing the prow must have struck a rocky outcrop with a glancing blow that flipped it right-side up again, only for the careering, battered ship to pile into another set of jagged rocks with enough remaining impetus to split open the bridge section from nose to over half the wreck’s length. And here and there on the surviving surface plating he could see the same embedded pieces of large metal coil.

  “It must have been hellish,” Pyke said.

  “Couldn’t have been any survivors,” said Ancil.

  “Hang on—Shogrel talked about a handful of people who came back from this mosaic thing … yeah, I remember now.”

  “Our new friend back there seems to know that we’re heading up to the bridge,” said Ancil with a grin. “And he’s dead set on seeing we get some tutoring on the subject! Me, I’m just looking at that …”

  He held out a hand to indicate the splayed remains of the ancient wreck’s prow, a twisted wind-worn skeleton of girders and remnant hull plates, its lower segment buried in the sand.

  Pyke was more sombre. “Let’s not forget about Raven and her thugs—they came through that portal before us, so they gotta be lurking around somewhere like the skag-sucking gougers that they are.”

  Ancil suddenly looked nervous. “Perhaps we should get back inside, eh? Maybe Mr. Hokajil knows where they went.”

  Ancil was quick to head back to the entrance, and Pyke followed in his footsteps, smiling. Pausing on the threshold, he glanced left and right and listened intently. There was only the sighing of the desert breeze passing through the skeletal wreckage. He ducked back inside, lit, he realised, by reflective panels feeding brightness in from outside using smaller gaps in the decrepit hull here and there. Dervla came over and handed him a white beaker of some hot drink—it smelled almost like coffee but tasted of berry fruit. Every mouthful made Pyke shudder.

  “Everyone’s tried to get Mr. Hokajil to say what he’s doing here,” she said. “He hints that he has an important job, but then he just steers the conversation onto some enormously amusing incident from his long-vanished youth. Ancil’s having a go now …”

  “So how enormously amusing are his anecdotes?”

  “Not even slightly amusing.”

  “Well, I guess it’s time to do my famous impersonation of a composed and evenly tempered sod, then …”

  As they approached, Moleg held out a plate of what had to be jomby biscuits. They were oval, pale grey and impressed with a smiley face symbol. Pyke ate two—the first one tasted like chocolate, rum and raisin with a hint of freshly cut grass; the second tasted of savoury chicken while his olfactory sense received a jolt of factory-fresh plastics.

  “Interesting, aren’t they, Captain?” said Avrax Hokajil.

  “Never had jomby biscuits before,” Pyke said. “Might never try them again, but that’s another line on the ould bucket list ticked, eh?”

  “Ah, a collector of the outré and the non-usual, I see!” Hokajil beamed approvingly.

  “Talking of non-usual happenings,” Pyke said. “Another group of people, unpleasant types, went through the gateway ahead of us—were you around when they got here?”

  “You are, of course, referring to Madam Raven Kaligari and her two advisers, I believe.”

  “The very same—where did they go to from here?”

  “Why, I sent them on their way to the bridge.” Hokajil fumbled through a couple of coat layers and from an inner pocket produced a small device shaped like half an egg with a cluster of tiny glowing buttons. Still smiling at Pyke, he held it up and pressed one of the controls—and the solitary door in the undamaged stretch of bulkhead a few yards away smoothly slid open. Curious glances turned into puzzled expressions then bafflement as everyone gravitated over to get a better look. The sight was undeniable—beyond the doorway a well-lit ship’s corridor stretched away for a good fifteen metres or so, with other doors visible at regular intervals. Pyke let out an astonished laugh.

  “I’ve been outside,” he told Hokajil. “There should only be smashed-up metal and rock on the other side of that door …”

  Hokajil nodded. “And there is!—and there isn’t.” All eyes were on the strange old man. “What you are now seeing is a corridor stretching into the Mighty Defender some time before it separated into its composi
te sections then plummeting out of orbit to crash-land on the planet Ong!”

  Dervla squinted at him suspiciously over a pointed finger. “You said you were an inventor—what was your speciality?”

  “Temporal mechanisms and anomalies.”

  “And that’s how that corridor looked thousands and thousands of years ago?” she said.

  Hokajil’s eyes twinkled with outright enjoyment. “Effects, dear lady—effects will not be denied their causes.”

  Pyke smiled and shook his head. This is where I get to stretch my poor battered brain cells to their limits one more time.

  “You all know our names, Mr. H,” Pyke said. “And you’ve been going on about my journey to the bridge, so it seems to me that you’re not from around these parts—I mean, you might even be from the future, maybe …”

  “Your future,” Hokajil said. “Except that it’s in the past.”

  Pyke and Dervla looked at each other and burst out laughing, quickly followed by the others. Hokajil just chuckled.

  “Allow me to explain,” he said. “My presence aboard the Mighty Defender of the Arraveyne Heart did not come about voluntarily. I was abducted by agents in the employ of that cabal of dukes who were determined to escape the inevitable destruction of the Imperial homeworld. Oh, I did wish to leave, just not in that company.”

  Another member of the original crew! Pyke thought. This should be a tale and a half …

  Hokajil’s eyes grew distant with recollection. “The cabal had devoted a great deal of expense and effort over the preceding weeks, trying to persuade cultural exponents and leading conjecturists to join their grand project. But come the final days, civil authority was disintegrating, allowing the cabal free rein to maraud and ransack at will.

  “The Mighty Defender’s captain was also Duke Strano, the brains of the cabal’s project—once I was installed by my abductors in an executive cabin, he promised that I would have free movement around the greater bridge territory after launch, on condition that I would immediately resume my efforts to build a temporal manipulator.”