“Your assumptions are incorrect,” she said frostily. “I am here to do the right thing.”
“Bit of a turnaround.”
Ustril nodded sombrely. “My sisters … were very persuasive, reminding me of what kinds of behaviour should and should not be encouraged. So, now that we have reached this heart of darkness, what needs doing, now that Raven is …”
She stopped suddenly. There was movement behind her, then abruptly she was dragged by the neck backwards several yards by the Legacy.
Smeared with blood and lacking an arm, it slammed a foot into Ustril’s throat while its now free hand snatched up a rifle from the nearby table where the crystal key still lay, gleaming, shining in the chamber’s green illumination.
“Out!” the Legacy bellowed at the other Ustrils who were bringing weapons to bear. “Get out of this place or she dies! Understand?” It pressed the rifle’s muzzle against Ustril’s face for emphasis and the squad of alter-Ustrils retreated to the exit, leaving one by one.
The Legacy smiled brightly then directed that unhinged gaze at Pyke. “You still think that the eternal nano-tide can be denied! All your struggles, all your ploys, all your little helpers, they’re all just minor setbacks on the path to infinite glory and an unyielding, perfect might. If you had a scrap of sense, Bran, or even just base self-preservation, you would surrender to the inevitable and come over to the winning side! The Empire of Forever will need good administrators …”
Its rant was interrupted as a green-blue beam stabbed out of the glowing recess in the wall, projecting a flickering figure into midair. Immediately, it began to speak.
“Blah-blah-eternal, blah-blah-infinite-glory, blah-blah-inevitable! Is that not the fiercest bucket of puke you’ve ever heard, ould son?”
Pyke looked up at Pyke. “No question,” he said, laughing.
The Pyke projection then looked at the Legacy.
“I’ve got your little playmate on the back foot,” he said. “Time you gave it up. The Damaugra is now mine!”
But the Legacy just chuckled. “Words are not bullets and threats are not deeds, and a reflection is not real.”
“You’re making a big-g-g-g-g-g-g …”
The projection distorted badly in spasms of interference then stabilised again, only this time it was Raven Kaligari who hovered there, grinning happily down at her master.
“Is all as it should be?” said the Legacy.
Now two versions of Raven were regarding each other. Pyke, though, was worried about Ustril who was choking under the Legacy’s foot.
“The interloper will be eliminated very shortly,” said Raven. “Can I be of assistance?”
The Legacy nodded, removed its foot from Ustril’s neck and stepped back to the other side of the table where the crystal key sat.
“Demonstrate your control over the Damaugra,” it said. “Eliminate these hindrances, these tiny insects with their tiny minds and tiny schemes.”
“It shall be done,” said Raven, raising a hand and pointing at a section of the chamber’s wall.
A long stretch of grey, razor-edge spiral coil tore itself away from the midst of the hundreds that lined the chamber. Like an immense tentacular arm, it made vaguely serpentine motions as it lowered itself till it hung over the group on the landing. The Legacy laughed as the “head” end reared back in a clear precursor of a striking attack—and in that moment the projection of Raven suddenly vanished. Then the deadly razor-coil tentacle came slamming down. On the spot where the Legacy stood.
Pyke reflexively jerked backwards from the crashing point of impact. He thought the tentacle had struck the crystal key as well but then he saw it on the floor, intact among the broken pieces of the table. Meantime, the coil retracted and hauled itself back up to the gap in the wall.
“Stop him! Stop him!”
In Pyke’s head, Rensik was sounding almost panicky, and Pyke was baffled until he realised that the Legacy was still alive, its mangled hand extended to the winged shape of the crystal key, tapping its shining surface with twisted fingers.
“It is going to unlock the Essavyr Key—stop it!”
Pyke scrambled over to the crushed, bloody mess of the Legacy’s form, and dragged its remaining arm away from the crystal key. Yet still it managed to speak while blood drooled from its mouth.
“Too … too late … the nano-tide will not be denied …”
The Essavyr Key was showing black spots that radiated like dark ripples.
“Destroy the key,” said Rensik in his head. “The Legacy has triggered the unlocking sequence.”
Panic and horror seized Pyke. There was no rifle within reach and the broken piece of window glass was gone from his pocket, fallen out or removed by those guards. And still the Legacy continued to live, laughing at him, spraying blood from its mouth.
“… nano-tide … the Empire of Living Matter … will consume you all …”
“You really need to die,” Pyke snarled. Grabbing the possessed Raven by the blood-sodden collar of that shiny black jacket, he swung the Legacy’s head over and brought it down on the crystal key. A desperate fury took hold and he began slamming that head down again, and again, and again. He could feel his senses swimming from the effort and his hands aching from gripping the jacket.
Then he smashed that hateful head down again, and suddenly there was a ringing sound, a continuous high musical note.
Dear god, is this it? The end of the whole shebang? And me?
Then Rensik spoke. “Get away, Captain, you have only seconds before the Essavyr Key shatters. The nano-plague knows! I can hear its fear. You have my thanks, Captain, and something else …”
Pyke scrambled to his feet, then bent over Ustril and found she was still breathing. The effort made him cry out but somehow he managed to drag her tall, heavy form down into the twisty corridor, by which time the ringing had risen to a piercing shriek. There was a detonation of some kind, along with a burst of pure light that flowed around him like a silent cocoon, like the last viscous droplets of sunlight, bringing a warmth that put him to sleep.
EPILOGUE
Pyke, aboard the Scarabus
Twenty-four hours.
Actually, it was less than that, about twenty-two hours and some change. But that was only since the ancient launch had been brought into the Scarabus’ shuttle bay, with Pyke aboard. He didn’t know how much time had passed between the Key’s destruction and waking up in the launch. It had been quiet, though, back here on the Scarabus. A few messages had come in, from the other Pyke that was in command of the Damaugra, but he’d taken and replied to them from his quarters.
Which is where he’d been since his return, self-confined, hardly straying outside. Sure, he was the captain and this was his ship—but it was also their ship and without his crew it felt like an empty theatre or a closed-up, after-hours bar.
Oleg was still here, solid, dependable, proficient in enough disciplines to have the ship in good condition while Pyke and the others had delved into that demented escapade. But just talking to him felt like being fooled into thinking that afterwards he’d head down to the galley, grab a coffee, swap a dirty joke with Ancil or some crazy reminiscence with …
With Dervla.
He still could see, when he closed his eyes, the executions. Yet with the utter dissolution of the Mighty Defender’s bridge section, off into whatever nook or cranny of space-time, went the bodies of the dead, of his dead crew, of his dead friends. Dead, gone, erased. As good as.
The comm unit over on the bulkhead by his desk buzzed. He cleared his throat.
“Pyke here, Oleg. What’s new?”
“Long-distance recorded message for you from our erstwhile employer.”
Pyke frowned—should he play the message here in private, or up on the bridge? He shook his head—this would be Van Graes letting them know if he was interested in the ancient single-seater launch from the Mighty Defender, and whether he had any work for them. So Oleg certainly deserved to know.<
br />
“I’ll come up to the bridge and we’ll see what he has to say.”
It was a short walk to the command deck, yet the ship itself felt subdued, low-lit corridors with only the sound of muffled systems keeping the silence at bay. On the bridge itself, the window shutters were three-quarters closed, allowing only a narrow bar of sunlight to cut through the gloom of vacant workstations and screens on standby. One of the three big screens was showing the Damaugra in high orbit not far from their own orbital slot. The space-time convulsion which left the wrecked Mighty Defender to plummet downwards to Ong in the past had also dragged the Damaugra forward to the present. The other screens showed the planet Ong, one wide-vista, one zoomed in on the city of Cawl-Vesh and its canyon.
Oleg made to get up from the captain’s console, but Pyke waved him back into the chair. “How are you doing, Oleg?”
“Very well, Captain. All systems reporting optimal performance levels, apart from intermittency in a power coupling down on cargo deck B.”
Pyke felt a measure of relief—Oleg was a Kiskashin, a reptilian humanoid species known for their composure and reliability, just what he needed. Pyke went over to sit at the empty helm console and said, “Let’s see what our patron’s got to say.”
The screen showing Cawl-Vesh blinked, changing to a head-and-shoulders shot of Van Graes who started to speak. First, he conveyed his condolences about the loss of Pyke’s crew members, and asked Pyke to pass on his sympathies to any relatives he might be contacting. Next, he noted that Lieutenant-Doctor Ustril had apparently disappeared and asked if Pyke could throw any light on the matter. He then confirmed that, despite the disappointing failure to retrieve any other artefacts of significance, he was still prepared to take the ancient launch off Pyke’s hands for a “very generous sum,” subject to verifications. Oddly, he somehow omitted to mention the actual monetary magnitude of that generous sum.
He ended with an expression of concern for Pyke’s own “temperament during such a period of loss and mourning,” and that he, Van Graes, would stand by his valued professional contractors. As soon as Pyke’s crew was back up to complement, there were a couple of acquisition assignments which would require the services of skilled and experienced operatives.
“Pause it,” Pyke said, then glanced round at Oleg. “Maybe we should give the relic-hunting business a bit of a body-swerve for a spell—what d’ya reckon?”
“Your assessment has merit, Captain.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” He started to get up from his seat. “Give us a chance to explore some other less insanely risky options …”
“Captain, I’m receiving a transmission from the Damaugra, from your counterpart.”
“Ah—I wonder if the moment has arrived.” He settled back into his chair. “Let’s see him.”
Van Graes’ frozen image vanished into dark flicker, then a new picture appeared, another Brannan Pyke, looking far too bright, sharp and upbeat for Pyke’s liking, but what else could you expect from a simulation?
“Captain Pyke,” said the face on the screen. “Are you feeling a bit more revived now, after that non-stop punishing epic you went through?”
“Never better,” Pyke lied, dialling his grin all the way up to “swagger.” “Kicking and scratching, ready to get back in the game, whatever the game may be! And yourself?”
“Well, speaking as a digital sentience getting ready to strike out on his own, things are looking pretty damn prodigious!”
“Glad to hear it, Captain Bran. So, are you about done with all the planning and prep?”
Captain Bran nodded. “Oh yeah—take a look.”
The screen switched to a top-down view of the neural-core chamber where that final insane clash took place. The Legacy’s body was gone (dismembered then torched to ashes by the cyberlice—he’d seen that in a previous linkup), while a continuous line of the Damaugra’s cyberlice were filing over to all that was left of the Essavyr Key, a scattered heap of thousands of crystal splinters. Each cyberlouse gathered up a small amount of slivers then scurried out of the chamber. A series of brief shots showed the cyberlice moving through the immense coiling tangle of the Damaugra and depositing the splinters in innumerable locations, wrapped in a gummy wad of lice-spit that was stuck to junctions in the grey coils, right where glowing nodules protruded from the metal.
“That was a couple of hours ago,” said Captain Bran. “Busy little beggars have finished their job and all that remains is the grand fission! After which tens of thousands of Damaugralings will spread across the galaxy and beyond, carrying the splinters of the key beyond reconstruction. It’s gonna be quite a show, so just say the word.”
“Sure—first, I need to ask about Ustril,” said Pyke. “Is she better?”
“On the mend,” said Captain Bran. “Don’t worry yourself—I’ll be hanging around for a while and when she’s well enough I’ll fly her down to her base and see her safely inside.”
“That’s pretty noble of you, thanks. Without her change of heart … well, we wouldn’t be having this gab, would we?”
“We had to improvise a kind of care unit but she’s getting well. She’ll be fine.”
Pyke nodded, found himself running out of words. The pause between them lengthened until the smiling Captain Bran leaned forward a little, voice dropping. “You were pretty banged up after the crystal key detonated—all I could do was have the cyberlice carry you on board that old escape craft from the Defender and send it off towards your ship. Hope the sickbay autodoc did the business.”
Pyke gave a considered nod.
“Yeah, put me under while it tended to various cuts and bruises and the like. Says I have to take it easy, so last few hours I’ve been trying to figure out our resources, destinations, how to keep the ship running … with just the two of us.”
“Sure, o’ course, understand. So, shall we do this?”
“No reason for any more delay, Captain. Go right ahead.”
Bran’s image was replaced by a view of the Damaugra that was closer than that on the bridge monitor, some kind of cyberlice retasked as a remote cam, Pyke was sure. For several seconds nothing happened, then small clumps of spiral coils began detaching themselves from the outer surface of the Damaugra’s huge, stretched out jungly tangle. Seconds grew into minutes and the drifting few became many, then became a cloud of miniature Damaugras spreading outwards, heading away from the planet Ong. Before long the actual central mass of the parent Damaugra was obscured by a cloud of its progeny as they separated themselves and wandered outwards, readying themselves for departure.
After five minutes there was a sense of the density beginning to thin out, and not long after that Pyke realised that he could make out patches of starry space through the swarm. After another minute or so there were mere dozens unfastening themselves and moving off. Then there was a handful, then there was just one tight knot of coils and tentacles floating serene, still and alone in high orbit.
The screen switched back to Captain Bran’s face. “And so forty thousand or more travellers start their journey across the galaxy. I almost feel humbled.”
“That was a helluva sight,” said Pyke. “Not one I’ll forget in a hurry.”
“It’s a big galaxy out there,” said Bran.
Pyke nodded. “Sorry about the way it’s turned out—kinda feel that you got the cruddy end of the deal.”
On the screen Bran gave an amused shrug. “What, that my consciousness has been merged with a giant razor-coiled monster? A monster that can dive into hyperspace almost at will, I should point out. Hey, y’know, life as a digital intellect has its ups and downs, but as I’ve said and will always say, I’m still me, just with an extra-fierce helping of bottle!”
They both laughed.
“So, tell me, Captain Pyke, where to now?”
“Off to Earthsphere, Captain Bran—got a delivery to make.”
“Van Graes is hungry for tasty antique goodness, I’m guessing.”
“Got it i
n one,” Pyke said. “What about yourself? After you leave Ustril at her base, any idea where you’ll end up?”
Captain Bran shrugged. “Might actually explore that hyperspace a bit, see if I can track down the Construct and pass on my tale about Rensik.”
“Good—saves me the trouble,” Pyke said with a grin. “We might cross paths again, eh?”
“We might, at that. Stay safe, and give that little keepsake the once-over, when you get the chance.”
“I will. Safe journey.”
“You, too.” With that, the screen went blank.
Pyke got up from his chair. “Oleg, set a course for Sol System. And mind the wheel—something I need to check.”
Leaving the bridge, he hurried back to his quarters, sat down at his desk and retrieved a flat, circular container from one of the compartments He opened the lid—inside was a disc of grey metal, the same metal that the Damaugra’s coils were made from, and at the very centre of the disk was a small raised dimple and embedded in it was a tiny hexagonal crystal. The first time he saw it was when he awoke in the ancient launch, the captain’s launch from the Mighty Defender, as it headed for a rendezvous with the Scarabus. Instinctively, he’d know what it was and all its possibility presented an insuperable hurdle of grief which had compelled him to close it up without further scrutiny.
But when Bran referred to it as a keepsake, he suddenly had no doubts. He sat back in the seat, stretched out his hand and laid his palm upon the embedded jewel—The transition was immediate. He was standing at the centre of the stone gazebo on the Isle of Candles. The light in the sky was dusk no more, but the bright, fresh brilliance of a perfect morning. And those figures hurrying down the steps from the villa were his friends—Klane, Vrass, T’Moy, Moleg, Kref, Ancil and dearest darling Dervla, all laughing, whooping and running to meet him. He couldn’t stay long, but they were his friends, and he was going to save them.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The book that was forestalled by illness of one kind or another has overcome its hiatus and now blooms forth, for which I must thank my tireless and supportive agent, John Berlyne, without whom … And of course, my thanks to all at Orbit, for believing in me and the work.
Splintered Suns Page 47
