The Heretic (Beyond the Wall Book 1)

by Lucas Bale

  ‘So?’ he said. ‘You think I care about your ship?’

  ‘You might if it explodes.’

  ‘Why would it explode? There’s nothing in here to ignite it.’

  ‘Your weapons? You were blasting away at those fanatics as you came up the ramp.’

  The commander didn’t move.

  Take your time. Give it some thought.

  Then he turned and said, ‘Open it.’

  Jordi reached the bottom of the ladder leading down from the hatch and glanced around. He was in a long corridor, dimly lit by red lamps at long intervals. The shadows of several alcoves lined the walls. Behind him was an airlock door, with a keypad and a single button beside it.

  There’ll be only limited power in the ship. So you’ll have to open the cockpit door manually. Key the code in and the panel will open. Take the lever and pull it downwards, hard.

  The door hissed and creaked as it slid open about two feet and stopped. Jordi raised the lever and closed the keypad. It clicked, and he heard a gentle hum as it reset. Just like the smuggler had said it would. Then he wedged his shoulder between the door and its frame and pushed. It gave a little more, and he was in.

  The cockpit was like alien technology to him; nothing like the trucks he’d seen in town. It was long and wide, and the roof was clear, like glass. He could see the storm clouds gathered above in the darkness. The spacious room was lit by rows of soft lights in the floor and across curved struts in between clear panels above him. Everywhere he looked were screens and dials, rows of terminals. There was a large seat at the front—the pilot’s chair, he assumed—with a broad console arcing around it. Four more seats, in two rows, were arranged behind the first.

  The venting system works even with a complete power shutdown. It has its own battery power supply. The lever is on the wall right next to the door. It’s red and there’s black and yellow hatching in a rectangle around it. Yank it down as hard as you can, then slide the door shut.

  Jordi pulled the lever.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Soteria Rising

  THE LOADING bay was suddenly drenched in a blaze of crimson which spilled from tiny lights on every corner and wall. A klaxon bayed, and a sibilant hiss behind it pierced Shepherd’s ears. The loading lamps began to revolve, their throbbing orange light cutting through the crimson.

  The fast-vent was designed to suck out all the oxygen in the loading bay in seconds, and replace it with another inert gas. The resulting buildup of pressure tore at Shepherd’s skin and pressed against his skull. His eyes felt like something was squeezing them from behind, tearing at the blood vessels inside. Pain shot through his temples. He sucked in a breath, grasping at the last remaining oxygen and holding it.

  Around him the Peacekeepers looked at each other and then around the loading bay. The commander glanced at the barrels of oil, then towards Shepherd.

  Shepherd was already moving. He sprinted across the loading bay to a locker he knew was closed, but not locked. He yanked it open and pulled out a breathing mask, which was connected to a tank inside the locker by a long, metal hose. Next to the tank was a heavy iron wrench. Shepherd pulled on the mask and picked up the wrench. There was no time to strap on the tank.

  As he turned back around, the commander’s hands lunged for him and closed around his head, trying to claw off the mask. Must keep the mask on—do something, now! Fight back! With a strangled cry, Shepherd pulled away and hammered the wrench again and again across the macabre helmet as sweat gathered on the inside of the breathing mask and stung his eyes. The wrench struck the hard composite, but seemed to have no effect. Shepherd’s hot breath echoed inside the mask and filled his ears as the sweat blinded him. He began to swing blindly. He could feel the commander’s grip closing around the mask and the airtight seal beginning to rupture as he pulled it away from Shepherd’s face. Dizziness began to set in. Again and again he struck the commander with the wrench, jerking his head from side to side to retain the mask and the precious oxygen. He could just pick out the carved gouges in one side of the helmet through the smear of perspiration and was buoyed by it. Another blow and the Peacekeeper was knocked off balance. Shepherd raised his foot and kicked the man backwards and watched him stumble. Shepherd pulled away, staggering backwards.

  Behind their commander, the other Peacekeepers clutched at their helmets, desperately trying to tear them off, but the oxygen was sucked from their systems too rapidly. Their bodies convulsed as they fought for air and then collapsed to the floor of the loading bay like forgotten string puppets. Twitching like fish on a beach. But the commander was strong and clever. He found his footing, brought his weapon up, and levelled it at Shepherd, coughing.

  Shepherd closed his eyes.

  This is it. It’s finally come. It ends here.

  He waited for the bullets to come. He imagined them burrowing through his skull and tearing through his brain, ending his life as they destroyed everything they touched. He felt only a twinge of fear, as if he’d been expecting this for some time. As if he deserved it.

  He couldn’t say how long he stood, but eventually he opened his eyes. The loading bay was still awash with red and flashing orange, and the klaxons still blared. The Peacekeepers were splayed across the steel grating, their commander among them, his hands fixed at his throat. As the red and orange swept over their bodies, Shepherd grew dizzy and reached out to steady himself. His eyes fell on one of the Peacekeepers, yet suddenly it was no longer a dark figure shrouded in a black, alien suit. The face was no longer obscured by a ghoulish helmet. It was somehow familiar, and harrowing. Memories fogged by pain and resentment.

  You sold me out.

  Expect it! Always. From me, from everyone.

  But you’re my father.

  You were always an asset to me, nothing more. A tool to be used as necessary.

  Who were they? What were they going to do with me?

  Stop asking questions. Take her and go. Leave me.

  You’re dying.

  It’s been coming for a long time. Now, I said leave me!

  Who am I? I need to know.

  Silence.

  Shepherd opened his eyes. There’s no time. He pulled the air tank out of the locker and strapped it to his back. Then he sprinted over to the bodies of the Peacekeepers. The rest of their unit would be beating down the loading bay door any moment. Gunships would be scrambled. The ruse was over—they knew now. There’s no time. He collected each of the alien weapons and tossed them in an empty locker and locked it. Then he ran over to the commander, stooped down beside him, and pulled off his helmet.

  The Peacekeeper’s face was a shock to him. He couldn’t say what he had been expecting—something inhuman and monstrous, perhaps, to fit with what he had heard about the Peacekeepers, and the things he himself had seen them do. It had been easier to attribute their brutality to inhuman creatures. But in his heart he’d known that the inhuman violence the Peacekeepers were responsible for was something only humans were capable of. And this face did indeed look human, as human as any other—if perhaps harder, rougher somehow. The grey eyes stared past him, their brightness dimmed. Beneath the eyes, commencing at the top of the cheekbones, a tattoo snaked around the man’s face and down his muscled neck, under his suit. It was a swirling pattern—exotic and unrecognisable to Shepherd, like the writhing bodies of a hundred snakes intertwined. The man’s mouth was fixed open as if he had almost dislocated his jaw as he fought to breathe. But there had been no oxygen.

  Shepherd stared at the helmet because he didn’t understand. Why couldn’t the man breathe? What good did the helmet do him if it didn’t provide air?

  Shepherd rose and went over to another Peacekeeper. He pulled that helmet off too, and saw a man similar to the leader, with the same callous face and swirling tattoos. He dropped the helmet and at last went to the venting controls to flush the loading bay with oxygen. When the klaxon stopped and the lighting had shifted to white, he pulled off the mask and headed to
the cockpit.

  Decision time, Shepherd. Time to get out—this isn’t your fight.

  The noise seeped through the airlock door—a horrific shriek, like an animal dying, repeated over and over. The lever Jordi had pulled glowed softly in the dimly lit cockpit. On the console in front of the chair, a light blinked red. He shuddered and backed away from it, pressing his back up against the door. His body ached almost numbly, a distant echo of something he had felt before. Different though, somehow detached and difficult to grasp. His mind floated on the insipid air above him, like a ghost.

  After a while, he couldn’t say how long—time seemed motionless—the noise ceased and the lever stopped glowing. He heard something moving outside the door and tried to bring up the rifle. He was dimly aware it was shaking in his hands.

  There was a banging on the door.

  ‘Kid, it’s me.’ The smuggler’s voice. Relief flooded him. ‘Shift the lever next to the door up again. I can’t open it until you do. Quickly!’

  Jordi did as he was told, slowly and deliberately, focusing on every movement, then backed away again. The door opened and the smuggler ran in.

  ‘Strap yourself in, kid,’ he said as he settled in his seat and pulled on the harness. ‘This is gonna be rough.’ His voice sounded like it was in another room.

  Jordi couldn’t sit easily at first and had to fumble for the seat. His legs swayed beneath him. He watched the smuggler’s fingers blur as they danced over the console. The lights bloomed and something deep in the bowels of the freighter began to stir and hum. Jordi looked upwards through the glass and saw the storm clouds roiling. Lightning flared within them. He leaned over the console and looked down towards the landing platform. The dark shadows of the Peacekeepers, scattered beneath them, turned and brought their weapons to bear.

  The hum grew quickly to a furious roar and then, suddenly, the ship was lifting. It bucked from side to side repeatedly, like it was being hit. Jordi looked at Shepherd, panicking. ‘Can their rifles hurt us?’ His voice sounded different to him, slurred. It was difficult to speak.

  ‘Sure they can, kid,’ Shepherd said. ‘But she won’t give in that easy.’

  Jordi watched the Port slowly fall away as the freighter rose into the air; could feel the ship yawing as the Peacekeepers fired at her. She spun smoothly in place, and suddenly he was thrown against the seat as something shoved him hard in the back. The snow and fog blurred into lines of white and grey. The whole ship trembled.

  Lights flashed all over the console.

  ‘What’s that flashing?’ he tried to say.

  ‘She’s not happy with me.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘You can stop yapping for one, and let me think.’

  Jordi fell silent. The freighter banked left and then straightened out.

  He felt so tired.

  More lights began to flash.

  ‘Kid, come up here,’ Shepherd said without turning. Jordi heaved himself off his seat and stumbled over. His head reeled. He was finding it hard to focus—his vision shifting and blurred.

  ‘Keep a watch out for the preacher. You’ll see him soon.’

  Jordi nodded. The cockpit began to lurch and seesaw as he stood and he braced himself against the control panel.

  ‘You okay, kid?’ The voice was distant like an echo. ‘Kid?’

  Jordi could feel warm wetness against his ribs. His body ached. His legs began to feel weak, like they might not hold him up. He felt hands holding him, shifting him backwards. His legs gave way and he collapsed into something—he couldn’t say what or where. As he felt something wrap around him and hold him tightly in place, he looked up, but the figure in front of him was too blurred, and moved too quickly for him to follow. It was saying something, but it was like a whisper—too indistinct for him to make out the words. His eyes grew heavy.

  So tired, Ish.

  Then darkness.

  Shepherd swore.

  Not now, kid. This is really bad timing.

  He knelt in front of the boy’s slumped figure and watched the blood soak through his trousers and shirt. Shepherd had strapped Jordi into one of the navigators’ seats after he collapsed, and only then had he been able to properly see the boy’s face for the first time since escaping from the port. It was battered and grazed, streaked with dirt and blood. The boy had looked young and innocent back at the camp—vulnerable even—but his gaunt face now told a very different story. Shepherd examined the wounds on the boy’s leg and his ribs. How much blood had he lost?

  What do you owe these people, kid? Can’t you see what they’ve done to you?

  Shepherd moved back to his seat and strapped himself in again. It would be so easy to leave, and muscle memory almost made the decision for him. A gentle drift to port and then punch it. Over the mountains, then a shallow ascent through the mist and cloud and into the upper atmosphere. They’d be away, and the boy—well, he could make some sort of life for himself away from all of them. Shepherd had done the same thing when he was only a little older than the kid, and he’d turned out right enough. They’d both had it hard to begin with—that much Shepherd understood. He’d seen something he recognised reflected in the boy’s eyes.

  Shepherd’s hands didn’t move.

  I didn’t ask to be involved. It should have been a simple contract: drop off the cargo and be on his way. The preacher had played a serious game by dragging him into this. He’d lied—not just to Shepherd, but to all of them. Yet the boy had risked everything for the villagers, and almost lost. He might still.

  Lightning crashed again, illuminating the clouds ahead.

  It was stupid of him, and stupid of you to be swayed by something like that. What do you owe him?

  Soteria rocked gently as the wind buffeted its hull. He looked around at the cockpit that had become his home, and was overwhelmed. She’d have been stripped down for parts and tossed to the wind if it weren’t for that boy. If it wasn’t for that damn preacher, you’d never have been here. Yes, but that isn’t the boy’s fault.

  Something inside him shifted. He couldn’t explain the sudden impulse to help the boy, the loyalty to someone he hardly knew, but he felt strangely protective of him. That thing back at the camp made you soft. The boy risked everything to save them—you going to dishonour that by leaving them behind? You know what a Consul will do to them.

  Not my problem.

  No, but it is the boy’s problem. His brother died for them. You know what that’s like, don’t you?

  Shepherd swore silently and disengaged the autopilot, then pushed Soteria into a low dive towards the forest. He scanned the canopy of trees, searching for what he needed. Alright preacher, if this is the way it’s got to be, where the hell are you?

  He could see nothing beyond a blanket of trees draped in shadow. Had they found him? Had he been hit? He felt a shaky relief when he saw the light. A single pulsing glow in the darkness. He dropped down lower, slowed, and glided gently towards it. When he was overhead, he banked sharply and set a timer on the console. It counted down from thirty as the freighter sped forward and the forest evaporated beneath her. When it hit zero, he braked sharply and spun Soteria on a pinpoint, setting the controls to keep her hovering. The display read just short of three miles—close enough.

  He reached over and turned on another display. A small screen flickered and displayed a video feed of the forest below. The trees swayed violently under the force of the downward thrust that kept the freighter level. Next to the screen was a small lever, which controlled a winch. He pulled the lever downwards and saw the winch cable on the screen as it began to descend. When it reached the forest floor, he stopped.

  And waited.

  Those gunships will be coming, preacher. We don’t have a whole lot of time.

  He felt Soteria rock gently and saw a dark shape huddled on the end of the winch. He pushed the lever upwards and held it until the winch clicked home. He set the hover controls to autopilot ,left his seat, and opened the air
lock door to the cockpit. Pulling his pistol, he knelt behind the door and leaned out, aiming down the corridor. He heard footsteps on the metal grating and saw a figure advancing up the corridor.

  ‘Hold there, thanks,’ he shouted. ‘Or I’ll drop you right where you are.’

  The figure waited for a moment. ‘It’s me,’ the preacher answered quietly.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘You hit?’

  ‘A little, but not bad. We okay?’

  ‘You tell me. You going to stick me with anything?’

  ‘No need.’

  Shepherd paused. Then he said, ‘Come on up. The boy’s hurt. You need to see to him.’

  The preacher strode up, stepped inside and shut the door to the cockpit.

  ‘We don’t have a lot of time,’ Shepherd said. ‘There must be a tracking device on the ship.’

  ‘We can jam it,’ the preacher replied. ‘Once we pick the rest up.’

  ‘Insurance?’

  ‘I hoped I wouldn’t need it.’

  ‘I’m on board, preacher,’ Shepherd said. ‘I owe the kid that much. She owes him.’ He jerked his chin towards the front of the cockpit, as if that was where he felt ‘she’ really was—where her personality came through to him most. ‘Where to now?’

  The preacher glanced at Jordi and his face saddened. He pulled a small tracker from his coat and handed it to Shepherd. ‘Home in on that. Can you do that?’

  ‘Sure. You’ll see to the boy?’

  ‘There’s an apothecary at the camp. She has what I need, but I’ll do what I can until she gets to him.’

  ‘Medikit’s in the locker over there.’ Shepherd pointed to a locker with a green cross painted on the door. ‘It’ll keep him alive for now. He looks bad.’

  The preacher nodded and knelt in front of Jordi. He pulled the hunting knife from his belt and cut a slit in the boy’s trousers, examined the wound. Shepherd turned away, placed the tracker on the console and set Soteria on a course towards the beacon.