Splintered Suns

by Michael Cobley

  “Another betrayal, Doc? That’s quite a collection you’re putting together.”

  “I have adapted to the burden. Now, the crystal—I will take it from your corpse if necessary.”

  “Now that was not part of our agreement,” came a new voice. A hooded figure emerged from the grav-shaft to pause right beside Ustril with a gun aimed at her head. Ustril didn’t waver and her weapon stayed targeted at Pyke.

  “Why should that bother you?” she said over her shoulder. “Everything in the Time-Mosaic is cyclic—just wait another few turns and he’ll be back along again.”

  The newcomer’s face had been hidden in the shadows of his cowl, until he pushed it back a little—and Pyke almost laughed out loud. It was the grey-haired, older version of himself who’d bumped into him down on the non-stop party deck. An expressionless nod was all that he gave to Pyke.

  “I really don’t have the patience for your antics,” said Older Pyke. “You wanted revenge, I showed you how to plan it, it’s all worked out, and now it’s time for you and your gangers to holster the hardware and make yourselves scarce.”

  Ustril was staring down the barrel of her weapon at Pyke with eyes that had no give in them. “I’m not leaving without that crystal.”

  “I’m warning you …”

  That was when Ustril pulled the trigger. Pyke caught sight of the flash in the emitter barrel a fraction of an instant before he closed his eyes in terror, knowing he was a dead man.

  A second passed, two. He opened his eyes and could still see the bright flare in the barrel and Ustril’s eyes glaring at him. It took another moment for him to realise that Ustril and all her creepy crew were frozen. Then he saw that his older non-frozen self was grinning.

  “What the hairy hell just happened?” he said.

  Older Pyke took a step to the side, revealing the familiar shape of Hokajil’s time-thrower. “Guess what I found back there in the grav-shaft,” he said, giving the device an affectionate pat. “Clever, clever Hokajil—you can even target individuals, group them and then apply a temporal shift.” He fingered controls on the time-thrower’s side panel and, as they watched, Ustril and her goons melted away to nothing. “I’ve just sent them thirty minutes back along their timelines—give you enough time to head up to the bridge and do what needs to be done.”

  Older Pyke then glanced at Hokajil’s remaining guard. “You, take your buddy and scram. Jump to it!”

  The guard hauled his wounded companion up by the arm and carried him off down the corridor.

  Pyke shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean when you say ‘do what needs to be done’—Hokajil told me that there was a machine up on the bridge which could destroy the crystal shard, but … he had his own scheme and there is no dismantler.”

  “You’ll figure out something,” said Older Pyke.

  He considered this grey-haired newcomer. “So, you must be from some wild, weird time-facet where time runs faster, I’m guessing?”

  Older Pyke gave him a sardonic grin. “Aye, that’s about the size of it.”

  Pyke shook his head. “How many more of me are there out there in the Time-Mosaic?”

  “Bran, laddie, sorry to tell you this but due to your acquaintance with that crystal shard, you are pretty much the focus of the action in nearly all the time-facets—until you get killed over it.”

  Older Pyke’s crinkly-eyed amusement about this was a bit disconcerting.

  “Shame I can’t rely on an army of badass Pykes to help me storm the bridge and kill Raven dead once and for all! Still, at least I have you, eh?”

  Older Pyke laughed, shook his head. “Sorry, kid, but this is as far as I go—I’ve got my own Gordian knot, my own final problem to overcome. What I can say is that the bridge is not what you’ll be expecting—stick to your plan, stopping Raven or whatever, you’ll not go far wrong.” He unslung the time-thrower from his shoulder and held it out. “Take this—don’t know if it’ll work outside the Time-Mosaic, but it might come in handy. Oh yeah, and this …”

  He doffed the hooded protector and gave that to Pyke as well. Beneath, he wore an impressive military-style jacket made from bands of different coloured and textured leather, browns, blues and blacks. It looked battered, scratched, stained and patched, and Pyke found himself wishing he had one. Instead he had a dark hooded pull-on made of some tough yet malleable material.

  “What am I going to do with this?”

  “Hold onto it—it’s a bit colder up there.”

  Older Pyke pulled out a pair of combat gloves, tugged them on then fastened his jacket. He looked calm, at peace with himself, and his eyes were tired yet somehow ready for anything. The younger Pyke felt a stab of envy.

  “They were good people, your crew,” he said. “Their deaths weren’t meaningless, or final … oh, and one more thing—watch out for the Damaugra’s cyberlice! Horrible, nasty little beasts.”

  And with that he sauntered off along the corridor, heading aft. Pyke watched him recede, then turned back to the airgrav-shaft where Hokajil’s unquestionably dead body still lay in a halo of blood-spatter. Right then, right at that very moment, he wished some of the others were still with him, ready with that easy banter and camaraderie which, now that it was gone, he realised was a source of strength and courage.

  He shook his head, then dragged the corpse out to the messed-up, black-flake-strewn corridor, retrieved his rifle and went back in. He arranged the time-thrower’s strap more comfortably, then, with the side of his fist, hit the button for the bridge deck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Pyke, The Crystal Simulation, the Sublayer of the Dimensional Lattice

  “Who was that guy?” Pyke said. “He seemed to know an awful lot about some of the stuff that’s going on. I mean, he said he came from one of the facets—”

  “He implied that was his origin,” said the drone Rensik. “He did not clearly state it.”

  Pyke stared at the drone. “So where else could he have come from?”

  “I am loath to indulge in speculation but my own investigations suggest that the peripheral fragmentation of Hokajil’s time-zones creates para-quantal anomalies.”

  “Anomalies?”

  “The operation of this entire dimensional lattice already places strain on space-time-space. Anyway, according to my purely hypothetical explanation, these anomalies may shift their state from impervious to permeable and back. Thus, the aged version of you may have come from a parallel universe.”

  Pyke was impressed. “That’s some inspired theorising.”

  “With not a shred of hard evidence to support it,” the drone said. “It is, however, of less import than the current situation—your real-world counterpart is now heading towards the bridge, and he is still unaware of the measures that we must put in place to ensure that the Legacy’s plan fails. Why did you not brief him when you had the chance?”

  “Look, I know that was the plan,” Pyke said. “But when I got there, when I got talking to him …” He shook his head. “Well, I realised that the whole problem with Hokajil was going to put him right in the old firing line—and, man, did that not turn out the way I expected, and then some! It’s just as well that I didn’t tell him all the stuff about handing the crystal over to Raven, and reassembling the crystal key. I know I talked you into preparing the convincer, but it was just too much for him right then, too much to absorb while Hokajil was on hand, skagging around.”

  He paused to observe the other Pyke in the tracking visualiser that Rensik had created in the stone gazebo. Real-world Pyke had exited the airgrav-shaft up on bridge deck and was warily proceeding forward, time-thrower over his shoulder, hooded garment tied about his waist, rifle held at the ready.

  “I wish Dervla was here—she’d always tell me if I was being a dozy maggot. How is she doing, by the way? Her and RK1?”

  “Surviving,” said Rensik. “The Legacy’s pursuit of them has been savage and prolonged. If I can make contact I may be able to guide them safely
to this place but communications in and out of the intermesh are currently under very tight scrutiny. However, I do have one scheme ongoing which may prove effective, so my efforts shall continue. In the meantime, it is imperative that you speak to your counterpart and persuade him to play his crucial part.”

  Pyke sighed. “Love this game—the easy bits are hard as skag, and the hard parts are a ride to hell. Right, I’m ready, let’s bring flesh-and-bones Pyke up to speed!”

  DERVLA, THE CRYSTAL SIMULATION, INACTIVE MEMORY CONVEX 3Z75W

  Hunted and harassed by killswitchers despatched by the Legacy, and dodging, feinting and fleeing, at last they had found a refuge outside the main dataflux of the intermesh, a memory block running in abeyance mode. Still partially subsumed by the merger with the drone residual, RK1, she could only note how the characteristics of her humanity had become quantifiable criteria which were currently archived in the shared flowhub. She knew what emotion she would be feeling were she not merged—it was sorrow—and was oddly relieved that such impediments were currently suspended.

  But even this moderately secure hiding place was lacking in utility, and was little different from being trapped or captured. She relayed this observation to RK1 who responded.

  (A lack of utility, eh? Perhaps you have been entangled in this synthesis for too long. As for our current status resembling capture, I would beg to differ)

  [Our scope for manoeuvre is severely restricted and the options open to us are scarce]

  (A short time ago I might have agreed with you) said RK1. (But over the last couple of cycles I have accumulated twenty-three data fragments, all of which have my designation in the prefs-tab and all of which are coded as a simulation sound supplement)

  Dervla was intrigued. [It can only be listened to from within the simulation. Is someone trying to contact us, or you?]

  (That would be a reasonable assumption. Of course we could transition into the simulation through this memory block and thereby hear the message)

  [This memory block is in abeyance. It is inactive]

  (True, but this only means that it is linked to a location outwith the current narrative area—ah, yes, the slums outside the walls of Granah, a shack on its periphery)

  [Will it be safe? Are we likely to attract unwanted attention?]

  (Neither the Legacy nor his killswitchers will notice a single flowswap among the thousands that take place every second) said RK1. (It is only our presence on the pathlines that sets off the alarms and bring enemies down on our heads. Also, we must stay inside the building after transition—stepping outside provokes a similar outcome)

  Dervla was mollified. [Very well. This is a worthy course of action—the message may turn out to be of great utility and importance]

  (Prepare yourself—decoherence after transit will be disorientating for you)

  [Wait! I …]

  The moment froze and swept sideways. The sense-absence that was contingent upon the data-plexus existence was suddenly swamped with a river of impressions, touch, smell, weight, sound, temperature, light, a grey light. And her thoughts, hers alone, untempered, unalloyed by the intermingled presence of another. Screwed-down emotion welled up, sorrow, forcing tears from her eyes, a sorrow which met a resentful anger springing from her realisation.

  “You reversed the fusion!” she cried. “You had no right …”

  “I had every right—pursuing the goal of defeating the Legacy is our priority.”

  RK1 was back to his mechanical bird appearance, perching at the foot of a decrepit bed. The shack had just the one room with a cold, ash-filled hearth, a square table and a broken-backed chair where Dervla was sitting, and two shuttered windows across which grimy curtains hung. The door seemed quite heavily made with a solid-looking drop-latch. She stared at it, suddenly wondering what was outside, fearing the aching gap within, fearing even thinking about it … That was why I knew I should have been feeling sorrow, she thought. Sorrow at the loss of my humanity …

  “There was a message for me,” said RK1. “It was from Rensik.”

  That jolted her thoughts. “You told me he was dead, destroyed.”

  “He faked it, an extravagant decoy by which other ends were achieved. Do you wish to hear the most important part?”

  Dervla nodded. “It’s what we’re here for.”

  A click came from the mechanical bird, then his voice again:

  “Residual, myself and the Pyke node are located in the lattice sublayer. We are in dialogue with the organic Pyke—the integrity enabler is under my control but many variables are not—you must gather other willing nodes and bring them here—although the Simulation Enclave’s memory arrays are physically connected to the lattice sublayer, all the blocks along the boundary were nullified to create a buffer—from the sublayer, however, some blocks can be reconnected to serve as a route for your group—a map is appended …”

  RK1 emitted another faint click which Dervla took to be the end of the message.

  “It’s all very well having a cunning secret exit strategy,” she said. “But it doesn’t help with the problem of ‘gathering the nodes’—can’t we come up with a better name for hijacked people than ‘nodes,’ by the way …”

  “There is a low-level throughput capillary nearby,” the drone residual said. “It serves the continuity subsystem with everything from flowswaps to dialogue updates. With the appropriate masking we would be able to insert ourselves into the inward feed.”

  “Would we go undetected?”

  “No—our combined size and complexity would be immediately noticed. We might be able to re-enter the simulation proper but the Legacy’s agents would have us caged very shortly thereafter.”

  “What if it was just you entering with the flowswaps?”

  “That would lessen the problem but detection would remain a distinct possibility.”

  Dervla nodded, smiling as she gazed at the grimy curtains which moved gently on the slight puffs of air that slipped through the cracks of the crudely made shutters.

  “Okay, sounds like what you need, then, is a decoy, a big, fat, loud, bright decoy, some tasty bait that our old pal the Legacy can’t resist.” She smiled at the mechanical bird which regarded her with unwavering beady eyes.

  “You intend to be the bait, I take it.”

  “Yep—you said it yourself, step outside the shack and all the alarms go off, which is the ideal cover under which you can get back inside the city and find our friends.”

  “This is not an acceptable course of action,” RK1 said. “The loss potential contravenes my short-term group targets …”

  “What about pragmatic decisions based on long-term goals?” she said. “Come on, no more dithering. I’m prepared for the Legacy and its jolly japes …”

  “It’s an inhuman sentience,” RK1 said. “It will treat you with cold indifference to human values.”

  “Okay, maybe I’m not prepared,” Dervla said. “But my mind’s made up. Rensik and Pyke are up in the sublayer, right on the sharp edge, and I’m willing to do what it takes to put a stake through the heart of that bastard devil-machine!” She laughed dryly. “After all, the scumsucking ratbag didn’t quite kill me last time so maybe I’ll be just as lucky on the rematch!”

  Yeah, lucky old me! Look how well things have turned out so far!

  “You are clearly not to be swayed in this decision,” said RK1. “I shall access the throughput capillary and make ready for the infiltration. It will only take a few seconds.”

  With that the mechanical bird disappeared. Dervla sighed with relief and turned back to the door. Her thoughts went back to the dispassionate assessment of her emotions during the fusion with RK1. Of course, that sorrow wasn’t just for the loss of her humanity; it was also sorrow at never again being able to feel anything for Bran. But here she was, now, back among all her memories and feelings, all as present and correct as they could be for a girl made of data. Half of her was glad that Bran wasn’t here—he wouldn’t have to bear wit
ness to her surrendering to the voracious beast in order to distract it from RK1’s efforts. But half of her wished he was, even if only for the mad bravado that he would cast in the face of anyone rash enough to mess with Captain Brannan Pyke!

  She grinned. Well, he’s not the only one who can carry it off!

  RK1’s disembodied voice spoke: “I am ready—please proceed.”

  Dervla made no reply, but got up from the broken chair, went to unlatch the door, swung it open and stepped outside.

  The sky was overcast but from the brightness it felt like early afternoon. Her shack was positioned on a small rise at the edge of a ribbon of slum dwellings that clung to the outer walls of the city of Granah. Smoke trails drifted up from a hundred flues and angled pipes, chickens pecked in the dirt along footpaths, laundry flapped on lines, but not another person was visible. Not far from the city walls, cliffs fell to a pebbly beach, and the waters of a wide river. There was an island about half a mile offshore, with buildings from which tiny lights flickered.

  So, not the full-scale alert, complete with sirens and flashing lights after all. But then, just because she couldn’t see or hear the alarums didn’t mean it wasn’t happening outside the simulation.

  Then she heard a growing hum, tried to track its direction then felt trepidation as a glittering metal object flew up from beyond the cliff edge. Blue steel wings or blades angled around a hub of black crystal while something spun furiously at its rear, blurring the background while keeping the thing in the air. A second one flew in from over the city, and a third descended from the sky. They converged on her position then paused, hanging overhead at equidistant points, humming like angry engines.

  That was when the Legacy arrived. Its general appearance was similar to how it had looked out in the intermesh, a dense mass of argent-bright rods and struts, cross-linked and shifting and flexing. Before it was a huge amorphous presence—now it had a strange symmetry with a curious overall shape which looked like either a featureless head or a limbless torso. It floated silently up from beneath the cliffside then glided towards her, slowing to a gentle drift.