Pyke scanned the luxurious upper floor as best as he could, given the number of decorative screens and gauzy canopies positioned around the clusters of sofas and divans.
“Wondering about them guards we saw downstairs?” said Mojag.
Pyke nodded. “Plenty of sweet little hiding places for them, too.” He pointed to where a broad stairway led up to a raised section with the big glass and chrome throne and, behind it, parted indigo drapes and a set of dull golden double doors. “That looks like a convenient bolthole, so that’s where we’re going. Ancil, you and me will be the bait.”
“Uh, bait?”
“Yes, indeedy, bait on legs as we run like a pair of mad dogs right around the side there, heading for the big stairs.” Pyke reached over and slapped Kref on the shoulder. “Meanwhile Mojag and our chair-chucker supreme here will be watching for any guards sticking their heads up to take a pop at us, so that they can smack ’em with a big chunk o’ furniture. Or a coupla rounds, if ye like.”
Ancil smiled and gave a weary shake of the head. “Play moving target for thugs with energy weapons? Sure, why not?”
“That’s the spirit. Right, ye ready?”
Ancil quickly fastened his throwable satchel, shortened the strap so it was tucked snugly under one arm, then spread his hands. “Ready enough, chief!”
“Stay a coupla yards behind me,” Pyke said. “Makes it harder to target the two of us!…”
And he was off, just a light jog for the first few seconds then picking up the pace, trying not to think of the Lord-Governor’s guards drawing a bead along their energy rifles. Legs pumping he jumped over low tables, vaulted across high chair backs, heard the thud-clatter-oof-curse of Ancil not quite making it, and let out an exhilarated half-whoop, half-peal of laughter as he mounted the wide steps with wide running strides. Still alive, he thought, as he lunged towards the massive gleaming throne, ducking behind it. And we did it, got here, most of us…
Then Ancil arrived, collapsing next to him, gasping for breath.
“Nothing, chief, not… a shot, not a… sign of ’em.”
“You sure?” Pyke stood and peered around the side of the glass and chrome throne, and Ancil was right, no armed hostiles to be seen. Away at the far side Mojag was waving and shouting that there was no one else around.
“So where are they?” he muttered, frowning at the big double doors behind the throne.
“Not much room behind those doors, chief,” Ancil said as he stood, pointing out how close they were to the tower’s outer wall. “Must be more stairs or another elevator up to a penthouse or the like.”
“Well, we’re gonna find out,” Pyke said, hefting his heavy Gruxen revolver then checking the extent of his remaining ammunition. “Many shells ya got left?”
Mojag and Kref arrived a moment later and a swift appraisal revealed that Ancil was down to a handful of rounds while Kref still had nearly two dozen. Pooling and dividing the stubby, weighty shells gave everyone enough for a full load and a couple spare.
As they gathered before the double doors Ancil said, “Time for yet more bold exploits, chief?”
“You mean something crazy and daring, yet showy?”
“That’s it–just as well I’m getting the hang of it.”
Pyke nodded and then waved a hand in front of a chest-high sensor aperture. The doors parted and, weapons ready, they moved warily across the threshold. Inside, more curtains enclosing either side, dark blue drapes hanging from a curved rail which carried small pinspots that shed a buttery yellow glow. There were no sounds, just a muffled silence. Pyke fingered the heavy drapes, found a gap and pushed on through–and found himself descending a few, shallow steps to a round, wood-tiled floor and there, at the back of this small chamber, was a dull grey, oval metal frame nearly three metres high. It was firmly bolted to the floor, had a number of small shiny spikes spaced evenly around its outer edge, and was easily, disturbingly recognisable.
“Chief,” said Ancil. “That looks a lot like one of them portal gates.”
“That’s what it is, all right,” Pyke muttered, as a horrible realisation began sinking in.
Ancil’s face had gone pale. “Hang on, where’s this Gyr-Matu guy? If we don’t send him to meet his forefathers, how do we get Win and Dervla back? He has to be here!”
“The esteemed Lord-Governor has departed,” came a deep, expressive voice from above. “Your assassination plot has failed.”
Everyone already had their guns out and ready but Pyke only had to make a half-turn and glance sideways to spot the two guards who had stealthily emerged from the drapes on either side. Each held an energy rifle aimed unwavering at the ones closest to them, Kref and Mojag.
“Please drop your weapons,” the voice said. “Or prepare for death.”
Pyke uttered a stifled snarl through grinding teeth and tossed his weapon off to the side with a harsh clatter. Mojag and Kref followed suit, but Ancil’s angry face caught Pyke’s eye and for one moment it seemed that the fury in his eyes would boil over into violence and blood. Then the fury subsided, Ancil closed his eyes, shook his head slightly, and threw his gun away.
“A wise decision. You may yet live to see out this day.”
Pyke glanced up to see a circular railed balcony empty of any presence. Then he heard descending footsteps and a moment later the drapes parted and a tall, barrel-chested silver figure stepped into view. At first sight the newcomer looked as if he was wearing a sleek suit of shiny armour but then Pyke realised that all the segments were like a kind of surface moulding. And the silverness had a dull textured, rather than a mirrored sheen.
“I am Akreen, First Blade of the Zavri Battalion,” the tall one said, clearly in command. “You were sent on this mission by one you know as Khorr, correct?”
Pyke advanced a step or two and glared up at their captor. “That piece of scumtrash is holding members of my crew–if we get through the day, what are our chances of seeing them again?”
“The female prisoners are no longer in Khorr’s custody,” said the Zavri leader. “They were transferred into the control of Shuskar Gun-Lord Xra-Huld and are now confined aboard his command vessel. He has instructed me to bring you all to him for questioning.”
“Forgive my impertinence, Exalted One,” said one of the guards. “Since these savages have been detained while in pursuit of our most puissant master, Lord Gyr-Matu, they surely fall beneath to the jurisdiction of the Lord-Governor’s security services.”
There was a tense moment before the Zavri Akreen turned his head and gazed impassively down at the Gruxen.
“Towerguard Ruserl, it is no impertinence to make a valid statement and I thank you for it. Towerguard Vatasc.”
The other guard stiffened slightly, still aiming at Kref’s head. “Yes, First Blade?”
“I need you to leave this chamber and hurry down to the elevator–the rest of my strike squad should be arriving. Inform them of my current status and escort them here with all haste. Can you do this for me?”
“I am honoured to obey, Invincible One.”
Pyke, feeling that something was vaguely amiss, glanced at Ancil, who met his gaze with a frown and a slight shrug.
The towerguard meanwhile had put up his energy rifle, saluted sharply and hurried past the drapes to the doors. Once he was gone everyone stood still in their poses for a moment, a frozen tableau that Pyke instinctively knew could not last.
“Towerguard Ruserl,” said the Zavri leader. “I must command you to put up your weapon.”
Before Akreen had finished speaking the guard swivelled on one foot and backed away a pace, rifle aimed squarely at the Zavri.
“Respectfully, First Blade, I must place you under…”
Akreen struck in a blur of motion so fast that Pyke could only analyse it in retrospect. One instant the Zavri was under the gun, in the next a large silvery hand had snatched away the guardsman’s rifle while the other had broken his neck. It was an overt display of sudden, overwhelming
and brutal violence. Shocked amazement made Pyke and his crew recoil and take a step backwards. The Zavri dropped the rifle and with both hands carefully, almost gently, lowered the dead guard to the floor. Straightening, he regarded Pyke and the others.
“That was regrettable but necessary. Myriads of similarly unjust deaths have befallen the maimed worlds of the Warcage throughout the centuries, and there shall be many more before the Shuskars’ long voyage of tyranny and mutation reaches its conclusion.”
He stretched out to point at the oval portal gate and the spikes around its outer edge suddenly flared with bright energy. Quivering tendrils of lightning linked them all and tiny sparks buzzed and spat. The crew moved aside as First Blade Akreen approached the portal, now pulsing with a sucking darkness.
“I must pass through,” he told Pyke. “I go in search of various truths, including the true history of my people and how they once fought against the Shuskar, not for them.” He paused, tilted his head as if at something only he could hear, then nodded. “You and your followers are welcome to accompany me–in fact, I strongly advise that you do so.”
Pyke’s frown turned into a wary smile. “Did I hear you tell the other guard to bring the rest of your squad up here? I’m guessing that they know nothing about this truth-seeking of yours.”
“Exactly so. Were they to capture you, I can assure you that you would be brought before the Gun-Lord Xra-Huld and that would be very unfortunate.”
“Xra-Huld has our people,” Pyke said bluntly.
Akreen nodded. “Anyone taken aboard his vessel as a prisoner can in the end only expect to become a test subject in one of his experiments. Recognise this as a near-certainty and you may avoid the trap of hope.”
There was a strained silence for a moment before Ancil spoke. “Are you saying that they are very probably dead, or is it that you know they are?”
“Beyond knowing that two captives were transferred aboard the Gun-Lord’s flagship, I have no other knowledge of their fate. I would not be permitted access to shipboard updates of that nature.”
Ancil was so tense and grim as he faced Akreen that Pyke thought he was just an impulse away from giving the tall Zavri a belligerent shove.
“And what’s your trophy in all this–what’s the prize? Is it something you’re ready to go to war over?”
“I am still journeying towards the truth,” the Zavri said. “But it is already too late for me to go back, therefore I must do battle whenever it stands in my way.”
Ancil tilted his head back thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, then he glanced at Pyke. “He’s all right–I say we go with him!”
Pyke gave a judicious nod and glanced at Kref and Mojag, who likewise agreed.
“Okay, First Blade, we’re with you. You lead the way through the gate and we’ll follow… er, where are we going, by the way?”
“Gatuzna, one of the Ashen Worlds, situated over on the other side of the Warcage.” The Zavri paused a moment then continued. “The realignment of the transfer continuity is a little slow over such a distance so you should wait about three seconds before stepping through.”
“Is that three seconds between each of us as well?” Pyke said.
“If you cross over in pairs, the portal machine will adjust itself accordingly. I have seen such a method used before.”
Pyke wasn’t entirely convinced. That said, the rest of the Zavri’s actions and words had a certain sombre authenticity and since they now urgently needed a way out of Khorr’s trap alternatives were conspicuous by their absence.
“Okay, whatever you say, First Blade–lead the way!”
Akreen nodded gravely and walked up to the portal gate. He paused, glancing over his shoulder as Pyke gestured Mojag over to stand beside him and behind the tall silvery figure. Then the Zavri walked forward, his form plunging into the pulsing dark whorl of the gate, a weirdly even, undisturbed surface which swallowed him whole.
“Keep a hand on my shoulder,” Pyke told Mojag as he counted out three seconds on his fingers before moving forward.
What happened next was hair-raising. The sensation of entering the gate was as unsettling as before but this time there was a perceptible interval rather than an instantaneous crossing. Straight away he was able to see something of their destination, dark ground strewn with gravel and charred debris, the First Blade slumped in the dirt, convulsing as whips of actinic energy lashed at him, fired from a long-barrelled weapon wielded by… Khorr!
All this he saw in that single moment, and felt a surge of primal hate untempered by caution. He would soon be thrust through onto the surface of Gatuzna and able to get his hands around the throat of a vile murderer…
Then the moment ended as he was pulled away from the grim scene. As if he was at the end of a long elastic rope that was contracting at a dizzying speed. Suddenly he was out of the bizarre inter-portal zone, falling in a blur of shadows and yellow glows… and he let out a gasp as he landed on something rounded and cloth-covered which jerked away and yelled a curse in Ancil’s voice.
“Gah, get yer frackin’ foot off my frackin’… Chief, you, you made it!”
Having rolled to the side (and noticed the dazed-looking Kref and Mojag lying sprawled nearby), Pyke strove to take in their surroundings. A dank, low-ceilinged chamber made of rough-shapen stones, constructed with columns and arches, lit by torches. Only feet away was a portal gate, flanked by racks of blank black units all linked together by a rat’s nest of cables. And now a number of robed and hooded figures were hesitantly converging on them. None seemed to be armed but Pyke was getting a vague sense of familiarity with the place and casually reached for his heavy handgun.
But then the row of hooded strangers parted and a tall, slender newcomer in similar garb stepped forward. A long-fingered hand came up, palm out, and the hood fell back to reveal the happy features of the missing Punzho the Egetsi!
“Captain, all is well–they mean no harm!”
Pyke got to his feet, leaned against one of the arch columns and grinned, shaking his head. “Hell of an entrance, there, Punzho–timed it nicely!”
“So sorry, Captain–I was on lookout duty in the Thurible Tower and was only informed of the portal readings moments ago.”
“This is Klothahil, isn’t it?” Pyke said, to which Punzho nodded. “And question is, did you bring us back here, and are these monkish fellows those same Sacred Order of the whatever?”
“Erm, yes and yes, are your answers, Captain. Except that they are now called the Transnuminous Congregation of the Celestial Nine-Fold Way.” The Egetsi rolled his eyes for just a moment. “The story I have to relate will amaze you!”
Pyke nodded amiably, but the sight of Khorr standing over the helpless Zavri with that lightning weapon was still bright and sharp in his mind’s eye. “I have no doubts on that score, Punzho, but can you give us the handy pocket-sized version ’cos there’s someplace else that we really need to be!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“So you wouldn’t say that Kref was a typical Henkayan, then?” said Sam Brock, frowning as she read through Pyke’s sketchy notes on the big enclosed operator screen. Hechec had retasked one of the bridge workstations for her use, but the screen surface was old and the sidebar of touch controls slightly under-responsive.
“His combat and weapons specialisation is a little unusual for a Henkayan of his lower-middle status,” said the ship AI. “What is remarkable is a Henkayan willing to work and live alongside Humans, never mind taking orders from one.”
“I see,” Sam said. “What about the Egetsi, this Punzho…?” She gave the screen touchbar a firm tap, switching to another file while making notes on a slimpad. “Does he fit in well?”
“Lt Brock, it would be safe to assume that all the crew members have learned how to coexist in one way or another.”
Sam made a few more notes, frowned, then paged the slimpad back to remind herself of earlier comments. Inevitably, however, her thoughts veered off into brooding and speculatin
g on what was happening outside the ship. After the parting of the ways with T’Loskin Rey, Sam had elected to accompany G’Brozen Mav aboard the Scarabus, acquired from Brannon Pyke by devious subterfuge. The Chainer leader’s efforts were now devoted to persuading rebel groups from other worlds to switch allegiance back to him. G’Brozen Mav had explained some of the background soon after the Scarabus landed on a high mountain shelf west of Armag City.
“Lieutenant,” he had said, “you have to realise that months of planning and preparation led up to the Armag uprising, and not just here–another seven worlds, important production worlds, are staging their own insurgencies at this very moment. I was deeply involved in the planning and in regular contact with intermediaries, up until the day that my deputy, T’Loskin Rey, had Khorr remove me from the scene. And now I must reassert my leadership, but if I attempt such a thing in the middle of the fighting what might the outcome be?” G’Brozen Mav had frowned. “From experience I know that Rey’s sense of strategy is weak, so if I do not act, his failure may be catastrophic.”
In the end G’Brozen Mav opted for resolve and had the Toolbearer bring the Scarabus down to land in a secluded, high mountain shoulder. Before leaving with his bodyguards he ordered the ship AI to allow Sam full access to the databanks. That was over two hours ago, during which time she set herself the task of putting together a file on Pyke and his crew and ship, just to satisfy her curiosity. The AI proved very helpful, offering up a range of resources, cargo manifests, fund transactions and transfers, shipwide chat logs, bridge operator reports, hull and system reports, onboard environmental analyses, crew journals, Pyke’s own assessment files and others.
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