“And how about that world he found on the holomap? Got any data on it?”
“Yes, Bran. It leads to an Indroma world called Tigimhos whose system is set apart from busy transport routes and hubs. Population is less than forty thousand, mostly Bargalil, and the economy is wholly agrarian. Estimated journey time, four hours forty-five minutes.
Pyke nodded as he gazed down at Toolbearer Hechec who now lay still, eyes closed, breathing a quiet and steady sound. The autodoc’s hardfield effectors were already at work, pale blue rods angling down from above, peeling back layers of heavy woven cloth to reveal the injury. At the same time extruded emitters projected a number of amber beams onto Hechec’s forehead and neck, maintaining sedation and pain negation.
There was some movement from the sickbay entrance, where G’Brozen Mav and the other three had assumed guard positions. What had Hechec called them? The brave Shengak? Pyke couldn’t know if that was their species name or their rank or whatever. But their mistrust was palpable, a background constant. G’Brozen Mav muttered to the others, handed out the small red objects he’d got from the Toolbearer and they all swallowed them at once. The bearded leader then crossed his arms, leaned against the sickbay wall and went back to watching Pyke’s every move. Pyke smiled.
“Well, lads, let me tell you, this has been a blast, and as much as I want to hang around for more of your tall tales and hilarious jokes, I must tear myself away and get back to running the ship. But I’ll have one of the crew check in on you every now and then, all right? Excellent!”
G’Brozen Mav frowned as Pyke went to the door, and stepped out into the corridor. Glancing back he saw the Shengak leader point at Pyke with a jabbing motion.
“Oh… kay!”
Pyke paused in midstep. “Er… okay!” he echoed.
G’Brozen Mav gave a sharp grunting nod, as if satisfied at something, and went back to his spot at the wall.
Hechec called those red gem things survival teachers, Pyke thought as he hurried away. Are they teaching them our language? Hmm, better let the others know…
“Scar,” he said. “Set course for that Indroma world which our guest found–what’s it called again?”
“Tigimhos, Bran.”
“That’s it, and depart orbit soon as you like. I’m on my way to my quarters to change out of these raggies, then I’ll be on the bridge if anyone needs me.”
Less than ten minutes later, he walked onto the bridge and found nearly everyone waiting for him. At once a barrage of questions framed in a variety of tempers engulfed him (although he noticed that Dervla made her comments in a level, near-formal manner). Clearly they’d picked up some details from the suit-cam-feeds during the planetside foray but explanations were needed, especially in the light of Scar’s announcement of the break from orbit a few moments ago. Pyke filled in the gaps with a condensed version of Toolbearer Hechec’s own story and the news of Khorr’s whereabouts.
“We’re in hyperspace,” said Win Foskel, “so the hunt must be on.”
“It most certainly is,” said Pyke. “Flight-time to Tigimhos will be about five hours, and when we get there Scar’s sensors should be able to pick up the trail of Khorr’s ship and track him to wherever he’s holed up.”
Ancil seemed unconvinced. “I have to say, chief, I’m not exactly keen on crossing the Indroma border… it’s not the Indromans that worry me, it’s the Earthers. Going by tiernet scuttlebutt, their intercepts have been getting sharp and fast in the last few months.”
“Thought about that,” Pyke said. “Once we conclude our business with Khorr, we’ll head into the Jatzilil CoSov and scout around for a legit milkrun job heading into Earthsphere-space. That lets us slip back in, no mess, no stress.”
There were nods of approval at this and Pyke felt a little knot of warmth on seeing Dervla’s endorsement smile (which was several notches below the dazzle of her admiration smile, but you can’t have everything).
Just then, she spoke up from where she lounged next to the command console.
“Bran, Mojag is following all this from Engineering and has a question for you.”
“Sure–Mojag, what’s your point?”
The grey-haired tech expert appeared in a couple of displays on the bridge, and Pyke tried not to think about the dead-but-digitised Oleg that Mojag was carrying in his cranial prosthesis.
“Captain, I’m curious to know what we’ll be doing with the Toolbearer and his companions.”
“I thought we’d take them with us to the CoSov–bound to be someone on Parimel III or Kanipha Station that they can find a berth with.”
Mojag shrugged. “You may be right in that regard.”
“I’m sure I am,” Pyke said with a chuckle. “Right, five hours–that should be enough time to run diagnostics on the weapon systems, don’t you think? Not saying that I’m expecting to run into serious trouble but we should be prepared.”
“In case we run into this cronking big planet-jacker ship, you mean,” said Win, eyebrows arched.
Pyke grinned. “I got the impression that the planet-jacking is done by a pack of smaller ships.”
“Oh, that’s okay, then.”
There was low laughter at that, with Pyke joining in.
“Don’t forget that we’re carrying hi-spec stealth gear,” he said. “If we need to merge into the background, it’s there. So, if that’s everything…”
“We haven’t mentioned burials for Oleg and Hammadi yet,” said Ancil.
Pyke glanced involuntarily at Dervla, found his gaze locking with hers, and abruptly looked away. On the screens Mojag appeared unchanged, composed and relaxed. But you’ve got Oleg’s ghost in your head! Pyke’s thought ran. What’s it going to say about this notion?
“We’ve had burials before, Cap’n,” said Krefom the Henkayan from where he sat on the deck with his back to the command console. “Remember the one we had for the Ruboyek triplets… well, two of them.”
The Ruboyeks were a gen-empath trio of Gulkranis, a species of small wiry bipeds. Pyke had hired them as general tech hands, and for their clandestine skills which were considerable. They had lasted over a year until a lethal part of their own past caught up with them on Firlong’s World, leaving two of them dead and the third missing a hand. When it came to the burial in interstellar space the surviving Ruboyek had to be physically restrained to prevent him jumping into the polycrate along with his dead, plastic-wrapped siblings. Once the improvised casket had been sent off into the icy black by the trash ejector, the third Ruboyek calmed down enough for treatment at the sickbay. Not long after that, at his request, he left the Scarabus during a stopover on some world in the 4th Modynel which had a small Gulkrani enclave.
“Yes, true, we have had the sad duty of consigning less fortunate crew members to the void,” Pyke said. “I’m just wondering if we can come back to this subject after dealing with the crisis at hand.”
“But Hammadi was a 3rd Ka’abaist Muslim,” said Win. “And a strict one. They require their dead to be given the last rites within twenty-four hours of death.”
Pyke nodded, while wanting to shake his head.
“Scar, any info on 3rd Ka’abaist burial customs, especially anything on burial in space?”
“I do, Bran. Third Ka’abaists are strongly in favour of burial in space since it lacks air, moisture or bacteria, or carrion creatures to corrupt or consume the body.”
“Right, that sounds good. Mojag, d’ya know if Oleg had any preferences as to how he wanted his mortal remains disposed of?”
For what felt like a very long moment, Mojag’s face stared out of the holodisplays, eyes intensely wide, and Pyke began to wonder if there was some kind of argument going on inside that augmented brain.
Then Mojag blinked, frowned slightly, gaze darting from side to side. Pyke almost felt like praying.
“Erm… I think I recall Oleg saying something about writing a will but I’ve never seen it.” His mouth twitched into a half-smile. “I could sort
through his belongings and his files, Captain, but it might take a while.”
That wouldn’t surprise me in the least, Pyke thought.
“Right, that’s settled then. Oleg’s body will have to be stored in one of the stasis cabinets till we conclude our business, and we can hold a ceremony for Hammadi in the main hold in, say, two and a half hours. Win, can you and Scar work up some appropriate words for the ceremony? Brief but respectful.”
“See what I can do, Captain.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Ancil–nip round to the sickbay and see how our guests are doing. After that I want to get into the combat system diagnostics.”
“On my way, sir.”
As Ancil and Win left the bridge, Dervla came over, but before she could begin, Krefom spoke up.
“Captain, I was checking over the lockered weapons before this,” he said in his steady basso voice. “You want I should carry on?”
“You do that, Kref. Let me know what you find when you’re done.”
Krefom nodded, got to his large feet and headed for the other hatch. Watching him leave, Pyke noticed that Punzho Bex was sitting at one of the display stations, hunched over something on the console. So Pyke beckoned Dervla out into the corridor.
“What was Mojag talking about?” she said, suddenly anxious. “Oleg never made a will…”
“I have no idea,” Pyke said. “My best guess is that old Mojag is getting a touch of grief from his passenger so came up with the will angle to put off having to deal with the real dead body of his real friend.”
Dervla clapped one hand over her eyes and brow and shook her head. “This is idiocy. We–you!–should have told the others after you found out, because eventually they’re going to figure it out!” Her hand fell away. “Have you spoken to him?”
“You mean… eh, no, not yet. Have you?”
“I thought I’d let Mojag tell me when Oleg wanted a chat.”
“Not much of an excuse,” Pyke said. “I thought you were the Official Second-Best-Friend.”
“And you’re the captain! What’s your excuse?”
“Being captain–I’m a busy man. Shortly I will have to find out from Ancil what the latest is from sickbay, then I have to see what Win’s come up with for Hammadi’s ceremony, then I’ll be having a conference with Scar about our tactical options when we reach our destination.”
“Really,” she said, regarding him with narrowed eyes.
“Yes, really, so what I’d like you to do, dearest Dervla, is skip over to Engineering and find out from our Mojag if Mr O feels like a bit of a gab.”
She sighed. “Okay, Bran, I’ll do it. Better to find out what he actually wants rather than second-guessing.” She gave a desultory wave of her hand and hurried away aftwards.
Pyke felt a certain satisfaction. Everyone’s busy and the Scarabus is hurtling along on its mission… Then he stepped back inside the bridge and saw Punzho Bex still sitting at the workstation. He was now leaning back, his tall frame scarcely accommodated by the worn couch, his long legs splayed either side of the console. His narrow features were sombre and his eyes were fixed on the small objects grouped on a flat section of the console.
Pyke recognised the Nine Novices, the figurines that Punzho employed as a focus for Weave meditation.
“You’re looking a bit anxious there, Punzho,” he said. “Don’t tell me the future’s that bleak.”
The tall Egetsi looked round, anxiety turning into a knowing, expectant smile. Pyke chuckled.
“I know, I know–the Nine Novices aren’t for fortune-telling is, I believe, what you’re about to say.”
“Quite so, Captain. Each of the Novices represents one of the Cardinal Principles and it is the intermeshing of Hvlozen and their influences which reveals the Explication.”
“Hmm, Explication, you say?” Pyke leaned against the side of the workstation and stared down at the cluster of tiny statuettes.
“It’s a kind of summary of all the interweaving bonds,” Punzho said. “For example, I laid the Novices out in the hub-and-wheel formation, all selected blind from the pouch. This formation, however, is full of contradictions. Gst is the hub–which I usually find a little pleasing since Gst is the serene, skilled one who works hard in the background, a bit like myself I sometimes think. So as you can see, Gst can form a pure triad with eight adjacent pairs around the wheel—”
“A pure triad?”
“Yes, where the pair on the wheel are adjacent. The hub can also form eight triads with pairs that are separated by one spoke–these are the Lesser Triads…”
Pyke held up a hand. “No offence, Punzho, but I’ve got a low tolerance for jargon, I’m afraid. I get the general idea of the figures, and you said something about contradictions so let’s take it from there, eh?”
The Egetsi smiled. “I am not offended, Captain. Well, simply put, Gst has a strengthening or enabling effect on the hub positions, and in this pattern the most potential belongs to Vrn.” He reached out and laid the tip of one long finger on the head of a small dark figurine. “Vrn gains with Gst at the hub, but here Vrn is flanked by Kld and Dgw, sometimes known as the Scions of Dusk. Together with Gst they form a Lesser Triad, and either of the adjacent Pure Triads pits Vrn against one or other of the Scions, with Gst’s loyalty a matter of debate.”
Punzho paused and they regarded each other for a curious moment, Human and Egetsi, dumbfoundedness on one side, abstruse interpretation on the other.
“So what do you get out of this?” Pyke said. “It’s not really a story or a morality play so you can’t get a lesson in morals from it… can you?”
Punzho looked thoughtful as he carefully gathered the little figures back into their pouch.
“It makes me think about the relationships between things, sometimes people, sometimes things in nature, sometimes ideas or the effects of ideas.”
Pyke frowned. “So that could have been me on the wheel with Khorr and his thugs on either side–and was that really you in the middle?”
“Or Dervla, Captain,” Punzho said. “Or even the ship’s AI, if you look at it in terms of personalities. But we are taught that this is the least accurate use of the Weave augury.”
“Maybe it’s telling me that Khorr is more dangerous than I realise,” Pyke said. “Could be it’s warning me to be very careful. Thanks, Punzho.”
The Egetsi smiled and inclined his head as Pyke patted him on the shoulder and headed for the hatchway.
Well, that’ll teach me not to ask about other people’s mysticism, he thought. It’s like trying to see shapes in smoke.
He consulted Scar on Ancil’s whereabouts and a few minutes later stepped into Sub-Storage 4, aft of the main hold entrance. It was a four-by-four-metre room lined with safety racking where sensitive and expensive equipment was kept, along with most of the ammunition which Kref and Ancil were cross-checking against the issue logs. The black racks with their mesh containers were protected by a monomol layer of diamek which gave it all a glossy sheen. When Pyke asked Ancil about his visit to sickbay, he shrugged.
“Checked the autodoc, all the readings were stable and the little fellow is still under sedation. One of his friends, the one called Brozen or something, said he was muttering as he slept. I mentioned it to Scar and he said it was nothing to worry about.”
“G’Brozen Mav spoke to you?” Pyke said. “Whole sentences, that sorta thing?”
Ancil shrugged. “Must be those pills you saw them take. I’ve heard of scripted nanobots that target language centres in the brain with vocab recodes. The words and the grammar are there but it needs practise to be any use.”
“Crafty,” Pyke said. “Maybe Toolbearer Hechec can show us how to cook them up for ourselves. Oh, and it’s not long till we say goodbye to Hammadi–keep an eye on the time, both of you.”
Leaving the storage compartment he headed for Engineering, but as he drew near the open doorway he could make out the voices of Mojag and Dervla engaged in hushed conversation.
Was she talking with Mojag’s passenger, the digital copy of the dead Oleg? He decided not to risk interrupting the possibly useful chitchat and retraced his steps to his own quarters where he spun out the time by flicking through his wardrobe for something suitably sombre. In the event he turned up at the hold in his usual sleeveless black commander’s jacket and dark blue trousers and boots, except that he’d put on a formal, high-collared shirt.
The ceremony was stately and quiet, as directed by Win Foskel. All the crew were there, apart from Mojag. Hammadi’s remains had been wrapped in white polyplas, which they had rolls of, and placed in an old sealable crate once used for storing pipe sections. The crate was loaded into the main trash launcher, set into the deck of the shuttle bay, and visible through the forcefield partition.
As the crew stood in a silent line, heads bowed, Scar piped into the hold an audio recording of the Salat Al-Janazah, the Islamic funeral prayer. The Arabic prayer had several parts and after the fourth or fifth something made Pyke glance over his shoulder to glimpse G’Brozen Mav looking down from the upper gantry. The bearded man made a sharp sideways motion with his head; Pyke nodded gravely but pointed at the waiting crate, as if to say be patient.
When the final words of the prayer were spoken, leaving a soft sadness in the air, he moved back from the line of crew members and took the cargo riser up the gantry. G’Brozen Mav was waiting out in the passageway.
“So, what can I be doing for you?” Pyke said, not sure what to expect.
“Toolbearer Hechec asks for you–he will speak and you must listen.”
Pyke gave him a judicious look. “Well, that was a very fine pill he gave you–if I ask nicely will he make up one to help me become a great zeroball player, d’ye think?”
G’Brozen Mav only gave him a dark and wordless look and strode off, as if expecting to be followed. Pyke grinned, shrugged and did so.
Toolbearer Hechec was sitting up, sipping a cloudy liquid from a tube that snaked up from a squat bottle resting on a low tray before him. The diminutive humanoid, still clad in his rough robes, smiled as Pyke entered the sickbay.
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