Reign of Stars

by Tim Pratt

  Nothing to be done for him now. Alaeron moved on to the automaton, which was more interesting. The blurred needles were three dozen small, multi-jointed limbs, about a third of them tipped with small serrated blades or hooks, presumably what had been used to tear Baldy to pieces. The rest had the sort of crystals Alaeron had seen on the automaton in the earthworks, the one that had emitted a beam of killing heat—but while that crystal had been clear, these were clouded, like smoked glass. Had their mechanisms burned out? If they'd been working, baldy might have been cut to pieces by rays of light instead—or the automaton might have shredded him with needles while slicing the rest of the party with its heat beams.

  "Came from the murder hole." Skiver pointed upward. "Think we're getting close to something, and it's being protected?"

  "That is tempting to contemplate," Alaeron said. "But it could be a mistake to ascribe motivations we understand to whoever made this place. We should definitely move forward more carefully, though. Char, if you'd scout the corridor, and let us know what we're dealing with?"

  The apprentice grunted and drifted ahead, ignoring the dead body.

  Lodger looked at the body. "He was a good man. We fought giants together on the northern border." He looked up. "You know, if you'd let Char scout ahead earlier, this man might still be alive."

  Alaeron sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm...leadership isn't my strength. Understanding things like that"—he pointed to the broken automaton—"is what I'm good at. If you're more comfortable setting the, ah, operational parameters, in terms of security and so on, that would be fine. I'd rather not have to think about such things anyway."

  Lodger grunted. "Well...All right, then. I say we keep going, let Char scout the corridor and give the all clear, and try to create a map of this place, as best we can."

  Zernebeth clucked in Alaeron's ear. "You're showing weakness. Lodger is reliable, but he'll never make captain—he lacks the necessary imagination. Who cares if one of your party died? That only proves he lacks worth."

  "The more men I have alive, the more hands I have to carry out the treasures we'll find," he said. "What does it hurt to let Char scout?"

  "I gave you control of this mission. If you choose to exercise that control by delegating your responsibilities, that is within your remit."

  "I'll take that as acceptance, then." He wished he could turn off the connection between Zernebeth and himself; it would have been satisfying to end that sentence with enforced silence, but short of tearing the jewel from his ear, he couldn't achieve it. She fell silent, anyway, and then Char returned. "Three more murder holes, each with one of those many-legged monsters waiting inside, and then another hatch, jammed half-open."

  "What's in there?" Alaeron said.

  "I was told to scout the corridor." Char's voice was chilly. "The room beyond the corridor was not mentioned."

  Ah. So it was like that. The minor rebellion of following only the letter of his instructions. Well, whatever made the man happy—at least he wasn't trying to kill Alaeron anymore.

  "Skiver, do you think we can lure out the automatons?"

  "I took the dead man's boots for that very purpose," the thief said, holding them up. The other guards looked at him with the distaste of the professional soldier for the looter, but Skiver had never much cared what people thought of him, and he didn't show any concern now. "Lodger, keep the Earth-Mover ready."

  Skiver tossed one of the boots ahead, under a murder hole, and another deadly orb fell down, legs whirring. Lodger blasted it with the Earth-Mover, and he and Skiver repeated the procedure for the next two holes. These automatons were profoundly stupid, at least—but they were clearly immensely patient. If they could be repaired, and their instructions altered by the Technic League, their uses would be myriad.

  Horrible, but myriad.

  Alaeron peered at the half-open hatch at the end of the corridor, and perhaps at the center of the nautilus-like wreck, if his mental map of the curving passageways was correct. "Char, take a look inside?"

  The apprentice drifted through the door, then called, "Nothing moving in here. Lots of things not moving, though."

  Chapter Twenty

  Silver Statues

  Alaeron went into the chamber first, Skiver close behind, then Lodger leading the rest. The chamber was roughly circular, about twenty feet across, and as Char had promised, it was full of things. One section of the wall had once been hidden behind a sliding panel, but at some point in the long centuries the panel had sagged and fallen free, revealing rank after rank of—

  "Murderballs," Skiver said. "That's my name for them. I coined that."

  "It's an apt enough description," Alaeron said. There were scores of the deadly orbs that had killed Baldy, slotted inertly into storage racks, their limbs folded up neatly. Unlike the ones in the corridor, these had intact, clear crystals tipping many of their limbs, which might mean their beam weapons were still operable.

  Lodger whistled. "If Zernebeth can get these things up and running, she'll be ruler of the Technic League for life. No one would dare stand against her."

  "That's not all." One of the guards slid open another panel, which moved on invisible tracks as smoothly as if it had been oiled yesterday. "Look here." The others gathered around and stared at a sort of cabinet that contained what looked like a weapon rack for swords...but instead of a sword, it held an object like the Earth-Mover, staff-shaped and tipped with a crystal. The shaft was made of the green, magic-resistant skymetal called noqual, and just in terms of material costs alone, the staff would be enough to make a man wealthy. If it actually worked, if it still did whatever it was made to do, its value would be immeasurable. Alaeron gently reached out and touched the staff. A hairline crack ran from the top, just below the crystal, about halfway down the shaft, but it didn't seem like significant damage, and he had hopes that it might still be operable.

  The guards began prodding and pushing at the walls in earnest, then, mostly without effect—but a curved portion of one wall did slide open at a guard's thump, revealing another hatch door. This one, however, didn't have just one set of six interlocking circles embossed on the surface, but half a dozen sets, and a cursory examination showed that turning one ring could have effects on neighboring rings, too. Skiver whistled. "That is a fiendish lock. There must be something precious behind that, eh?"

  "Char?" Alaeron said.

  The apprentice, who'd been holding himself aloof, came forward and attempted to pass through the door, but stumbled back, wincing. "It's...there's skymetal in there. Adamantine. And other things, ribbons of different metals, some of them stinging, some of them terribly cold, some burning like coals—" He turned and vomited, incorporeal spew becoming solid when it splattered on the ground, making the guards leap back in dismay. Char wiped at his mouth. "Some of it...sickened me."

  "Interesting," Alaeron said. "Hit the door with the Earth-Mover, Lodger?"

  The lieutenant lifted his staff and unleashed a bolt of force, but the door didn't budge. Alaeron grunted. "Should have known. The door is made of the same black glass as the rest of this place, and when you used the Earth-Mover before, it didn't take chunks out of the walls. Still, if we hadn't tried it, we would have wondered." He squatted down and considered the door. "Clearly this is some kind of lock. If we can find the right pattern, perhaps it will open for us. The possibilities are...numerous." That was an understatement; he started trying to calculate possible configurations of all the rings and rapidly lost count. Perhaps if he took a potion to boost his intellect, to increase his focus...He should have stopped by Malica's place and talked to her about her new recipes for such things. Zernebeth's fondness had...distracted him from making thorough preparations.

  "Look here." Skiver had managed to slide open another panel, and Alaeron allowed himself to be distracted from the potential treasure trove to look at the actual one. It seemed to be a cabinet full of spare parts, including fragments of the murderballs, but also coils of skymetal wire, vials of
quickiron, and bottles of substances Alaeron had never seen before, viscous and clear and bubbling and frothy and striated with colors. The days, the weeks it would take to test them all, to identify them or declare them new and unknown, and then to decide what they should be named—

  "There's a lever here," a guard said—the one with a necklace of teeth and gearwheels and the elaborate facial tattoo. Lodger and the other guards were trying their luck with the vault door, twisting the circles around in a haphazard, disorganized way, but the tattooed man either lacked their fondness for puzzles or had been crowded out, because he'd managed to open a small cabinet, no bigger than a hatbox, and reveal a green metal lever inside. "Maybe this opens the door," he said.

  "Don't—" Alaeron said, but it was too late. The guard reached up and pulled the lever down. Alaeron hadn't experienced any presentiment of disaster—he'd just wanted to examine the lever and, if it seemed wise, pull the thing himself, rather than letting some lackey employed by the Technic League do the honors.

  A transparent barrier slammed down from the ceiling like a falling portcullis, dividing the room in half. Alaeron, Skiver, and the tattooed man were on the side closest to the entrance, while Lodger, Char, and the rest were on the side by the vault door.

  "Oh no," Alaeron said—and there was the presentiment of disaster.

  The guards on the other side, cut off from any escape, pounded on the glass with fists and weapons, and they were clearly shouting, but no sound penetrated the barrier.

  "Pull the lever again," Skiver said, remarkably calm, and the tattooed man said in a panicked voice, "I did, I did, it's not working."

  Char drifted through the glass to their side. "Lodger would like you to know he doesn't find this humorous, and would like very much to be set free—"

  Small panels set high up on the wall above the vault door slid open, and nozzles appeared. They began to spray out a thick, silvery fluid, which rained down on Lodger and the guards. The men covered their heads at first, but there must have been a paralytic in the liquid, because soon they froze in place. The spray coated their bodies, the silver fluid seeming to move of its own volition after it struck them, flowing against gravity to cover every bit of flesh and hair and clothing. Over the next few minutes, while Alaeron stared in horror, the men and women beyond the glass wall were transformed into silver-coated statues of themselves.

  Char looked at them for a moment, then floated wordlessly up, through the ceiling, and away. Must be nice to be able to escape so easily, Alaeron thought.

  "I—I didn't mean—" The tattooed guard let out a howl of anguish and ran from the room.

  The spray of fluid slowed, then stopped, and the nozzles receded. The glass barrier rose up, making the room whole again, but Skiver and Alaeron didn't move. "Any chance they're still alive under that stuff?" Skiver said.

  Alaeron shook his head. "When they were paralyzed, their chests stopped rising and falling—their lungs weren't working anymore. Some of them may have suffocated before their faces were covered in that spray. It's possible the spray simply stopped their hearts, too."

  "What the hell was that?" Skiver said. "Why would you have a lever that does something like that—"

  "Containment," Alaeron said. "To stop something from getting away. If it manages to escape the place where you've locked it up, you can seal it in glass, paralyze it, coat it in metal. Make it safe. That door, Skiver...I don't think it leads to a vault."

  "Ah. Your theory that Silver Mount was a prison again?"

  Alaeron shrugged. "Even if the whole ship wasn't a prison, perhaps this part was. And even if it wasn't, ships can have brigs. What if this is a guard station? That could explain the weaponry, if that staff is a weapon—the murderballs certainly are. And what if the murder holes weren't designed to keep things from coming into this place, but to keep something from getting out?"

  "Speaking of getting out," Skiver began, but Alaeron didn't hear the rest. "Progress report?" Zernebeth barked in his ear.

  Alaeron made a hold on gesture to Skiver. "Zernebeth, we breached the wreck, but there were defenses. Almost everyone is dead. Lodger is lost, all but three of the guards—"

  "I didn't send anyone I couldn't afford to lose," she said. "Is there anything of value in the wreck?"

  "Is there..." He took a deep breath. "Yes. I would say so. Immeasurable value. Weapons, some kind of staff, automatons, mysterious vials...It's everything you could hope for. And there's a door, too, one we weren't able to open—"

  "So there could be more treasure, beyond the door?"

  "Ah. My working theory is that there's something quite dangerous beyond the door—"

  "Dangerous things are the best treasure. Alaeron." He wanted to object, to explain, but she kept talking, real excitement in her voice. "You've done well—better than I'd hoped. How would you like to become my lieutenant, an official member of the Technic League, and oversee the full excavation of that wreck over the next weeks or months?"

  Alaeron blinked. He'd led numerous men and women to their deaths, and instead of it being denounced as a failure, he was being offered a promotion. Numeria was a place of madness.

  "You would have almost complete autonomy," Zernebeth went on, "and I'd let you keep a portion of what you found for your personal researches. You'd have a fine lab, all the slaves you needed, and the sort of resources and latitude you couldn't dream of in the southlands. Here, no one here cares if the knowledge you seek has a terrible price—we only care about results."

  "Zernebeth...I don't know what to say—"

  "Say yes. I'll even let you keep warming my bed occasionally. It's diverting enough. You're teachable."

  "I...It's a wonderful offer, but..." Working for Zernebeth as a sort of independent contractor was one thing, but to truly join the League would mean swimming in deeper waters. True, he'd have access to greater resources, but he'd have to learn to play politics, and deal with avaricious, evil people who thought nothing of assassination and slavery—the other lieutenants would constantly try to tear him down, and to take his place as Zernebeth's favorite. Char would surely return to his murderous ways. To have any real power and stability in the League would mean surviving all that for long enough to become a captain, and to become a captain he'd have to do unspeakable things...and, worse, spend a lot of time paying attention to subjects other than his researches.

  "Don't think too long," she said. "I don't like ingratitude. I—what are you doing here? I'm in a private conference—how dare you! I'll have your head—Bothvald, what's the meaning of—"

  Then Zernebeth stopped talking entirely, no matter how much Alaeron shouted her name. He stared at Skiver. "I think something happened to Zernebeth."

  His friend frowned. "Like what?"

  "I don't...it sounded like someone interrupted her, she was shouting...She mentioned Bothvald."

  "Oh. Ohhhh. That's bad for her, isn't it? And not much better for us."

  "The League...power goes to those who can seize it. Zernebeth had the backing of most of the captains, but she also said politics wasn't her strength. I wonder if it's Bothvald's? If he convinced the other captains to back him, to stop supporting Zernebeth, he must know she wouldn't go without a fight..."

  "You think she's dead, then?"

  Alaeron shook his head slowly. "She knows so much, so many secrets. The League captains hoard secrets. Bothvald would keep her alive at least long enough find out what she knew, which could take a long time. She's strong—"

  "She may be strong, but she's not much good to you as a patron if she's in one of those black cells in the bottom basement, eh? If she's on the outs with the other captains, I can't think they'd have much affection for her handpicked servant, by which I mean you." Skiver gazed at the statues for a while. "I hate to say it, Alaeron, but I think our Numerian adventure might be at an end. What do you say we take some of these items of interest here, those mystery bottles, steal the crawler, and make for the border?"

  Alaeron opened his
mouth, closed it, opened it again, closed it again, and began to stare up at the ceiling.

  "Ah," Skiver said. "Loyalty, then. Well, it's what keeps you looking out for me, so I guess I can't fault it. You want to try to keep Zernebeth from being dead. I'd say ‘What's the plan?' but I can tell you're still working on it. Could we get out of here, at least? Those silver statues make me nervous."

  Alaeron picked up Lodger's Earth-Mover—at least that hadn't been in his hand when the silver mist rained down—and took the green metal staff, too, handing it wordlessly to Skiver. They went out, along the corridor, and eventually reached the fork in the path. The tattooed guard who'd inadvertently encased the others in metal was dead on the ground, a broken murderball resting beside his corpse. They'd cleared their path into the wreck, but there were other passages, and they had defenses, too. The guard had put up a valiant fight, judging by the broken pieces of machinery scattered around him, but the orb had gotten in a lucky slash and severed his jugular.

  "And then there were four," Skiver said.

  "Five," Alaeron said dully. "Two guards, us, and Char."

  "Four humans," Skiver said. "And one of whatever Char is now. Cut off, without support from Starfall. You think we'll be welcome if we go back? Zernebeth's pet and his manservant?"

  "No," Alaeron said.

  "But you want to go back anyway. To save her."

  Alaeron nudged the murderball with his foot. "Yes."

  "Hmm. I might argue with you...but Bothvald sent me to the subbasement so people could practice new ways of piling up pain on me. I wouldn't mind sticking a thumb in his eye." Skiver hmmed again. "We have the advantage of some firsthand experience with the cells, anyway, unless you think they'd keep her somewhere else?"