Arkship Obsidian (The Arkship Saga Book 1)

by Niel Bushnell

  The space was vast and must have accounted for most of the volume of Melchior. It was a cavernous void that seemed to go on forever, and all around the interior he could see life: houses, roads, buildings, open spaces, all following the contours of the space.

  ‘They must have . . . did you . . .’ Wynn struggled to find the right words.

  Bara smiled, squeezing his hand. ‘This was hollowed out long ago, before the Fracture. Melchior was one of the first-generation ships, full of people who wanted to leave Earth for somewhere better.’ Her features changed, a mournful expression on her face. ‘If only they’d known how good they had it.’ Bara’s eyes drifted. She shook herself, forcing a smile. ‘They dug this chamber out of an asteroid, mining everything they could use. The gravity is created by Melchior’s rotation, so we can live on the interior skin.’

  Wynn looked up: instead of a rocky cavern ceiling he saw the tops of buildings, pathways and roads laid out like a map, all of them in darkness, just tiny lights bleeding from their windows.

  Through the center of the vast space ran a giant rod-like structure that emitted a yellowy light onto one half of the cavern.

  ‘That’s the Circadia, our day/night system,’ Bara said, watching Wynn. ‘It rotates over a twenty-four-hour period, so we can honor and observe the ancient rhythms of the first planet. Up there,’ she pointed to the ceiling, ‘is night-time. Down here, it’s mid-afternoon. As Melchior rotates it gets darker. We even have seasons.’

  ‘Seasons?’

  ‘The planets had seasons, when the temperature changed. There used to be four seasons on Earth. We simulate the changes from the old records, adjusting the heat and light from the Circadia so our plants grow as they once did. Autumn is my favorite time.’

  Ahead of them was a wide boulevard with steps that led down to a broad expanse of water, a fountain at its center. The surface glinted in the warm light, as gentle ripples lapped at the edge. Wynn could feel the moisture in the air, kissing his skin. There was the scent again, haunting him.

  ‘What is it? What is that smell?’ he asked.

  ‘Smell?’ Bara thought for a moment then laughed. She led him down the steps, past the fountain, towards an avenue of formal rectangles that exploded with color.

  ‘Flowers. Our gardens are the best in the entire Cluster.’

  Wynn knelt in front these alien objects. He studied a clump of yellow stalks with white protrusions facing the light. He leaned closer to smell the odd structures, marveling at their delicate shapes. His hand rested on the ground and he touched a fine green growth that covered the space between the flowers. It was soft to the touch, calming to his mind.

  ‘Grass,’ Bara explained.

  Wynn laughed again. He stood up, spying a larger growth ahead. He ran to it and touched the pitted surface of the cylindrical object. Above him the shaft divided into a number of smaller offshoots. These too narrowed and divided, filling the air, and from each one grew thin green shapes that danced in the breeze.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked, stretching his arms out to embrace the dark mass.

  Bara smiled, joining him to touch the brittle skin. ‘A tree.’

  Wynn felt a calmness inside him, certain he had never experienced anything like this before. This place was alien to him, and yet it felt like home.

  ‘I knew you’d like it,’ Bara laughed.

  They walked further, through an avenue of trees, feeling the coolness of their shadows, listening to the whisper of their branches as they swayed, and Bara explained every new thing to him.

  The gardens ended at a low wall. Beyond was a series of large open spaces planted with more growths in ordered lines.

  ‘These are our crops,’ Bara said. ‘We still use hydroponics and growth tanks to feed ourselves, but our best food comes from here. And the crops help to regulate and recycle our air supply.’

  ‘And all of this has been working for hundreds of years?’ Wynn asked.

  ‘We’ve improved it, and we’re still learning. There’s nothing like this on any other arkship. You see now why we must protect it?’

  ‘Yes, I see. I understand,’ Wynn replied. He felt insignificant walking through this majestic space. He looked up again at the Circadia overhead, marveling at its design. The light had changed since they had started their walk. It was softer now, more orange than yellow, and the shadows about his feet were longer. The buildings overhead caught the first blue rays of dawn, as night became day.

  Bara checked the time. ‘We should go.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’ Wynn asked, feeling remorse at having to leave this place.

  Bara pointed up to a portion of the cave falling into the shadow of night. ‘Chancellor Varjo is throwing a dinner in our honor. I’ll show you to your room first, you can wash and change there.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to a dinner,’ Wynn replied. ‘I need to find out who destroyed the Obsidian, maybe then I can get some answers . . . maybe then I can find out who I really am.’

  ‘We will, I promise, and this is a good place to start. Chancellor Varjo may know what has happened. And there will be some other couriers there as well.’

  ‘Couriers?’

  ‘People like me,’ Bara explained. ‘We travel out there, we trade, we bring back supplies and information. I hear that Derward Tarkkail came home only yesterday. He seems to know everything that’s going on across the Cluster.’

  ‘Then I must speak to him,’ Wynn said quickly.

  Bara smiled, her voice calming. ‘You’re still recovering, Wynn. Take it slowly. A few hours won’t matter. And you stink, do know that?’

  Wynn laughed, his impatience easing. ‘Then I’d better get washed.’

  VAMPIRE

  Gofal waited, gathering data from his hiding place. He had managed to tap into some of the ship’s low priority systems without making his presence known, but he dared not penetrate any further. This was an advanced ship that could easily detect his presence. It hadn’t noticed the discreet power syphon which was restoring Gofal’s systems, but that was only because of the severe damage the ship had endured. Once it had repaired itself the ship would sense the power drain, would feel Gofal feeding off its veins, and do everything it could to stop him.

  His arm still bothered him. He did not have the resources to fix it, and without it his performance was impaired. He would need to be in prime condition if he was to complete his mission. He wondered if he might find the parts he needed in this hanger. There was no way of knowing without leaving the relative safety of the ship’s hull. He wasn’t ready to do that, not yet. He needed more time to feed. Then, when he was sated, he might explore. This place was unknown to him, and therefore unknown to anyone in the Cluster. His database was extensive . . . Why was this arkship not listed? The inconsistency bothered him, and he tried to compose some poetry to take his mind off it.

  No, it was no good. He just didn’t like poetry.

  Instead he tried to access an internal system for this place. If he could find some information it might prove useful in the future.

  There, an unprotected network drifting in the air. He tapped into it, cataloguing the data he found. It was a music channel, broadcasting across . . . this place was called Melchior. He listened to the songs as he searched his database. The language was new to him, but he sensed its origins in three distinct Earth tongues.

  Melchior . . . there it was, an archaic bit of information buried in a barely accessed database. This was a generation ship that set out from Earth – one of three constructed by an ancient religion to take their holy teachings to the stars. It was interesting, but of little importance to his mission. His prey was somewhere on-board Melchior, that was all that mattered.

  Gofal turned off the music. It was a distraction. He must prepare, he must focus for the important task ahead.

  THE COURIER

  Wynn was relieved to see the gathering was smaller than he had expected, just a dozen or so people in a secluded courtyard. As he and Bara entered
the square the overlapping conversations dipped as people discreetly observed the arriving guests. Bara smiled politely to the onlookers as she guided Wynn to a chair at the long table set in the middle of the square. He lowered himself into the seat, feeling old and tired. Bruises covered Wynn’s body and, despite the soothing bath he had just taken, he ached all over. His escape from the Obsidian was catching up with him.

  Bara sat next to him, comforting him with her smile as strangers took their seats around them. She had changed out of her blood-stained overalls into a loose-fitting dress with a thick leather belt that pulled the material in around her slim waist. Her dark hair was clean and, for the first time, Wynn saw how beautiful she was. She was tall, like most he had encountered on Melchior, and she carried herself with a poise and dignity that seemed at odds with her youthfulness.

  ‘This is Derward Tarkkail,’ Bara said, indicating an older man who had sat next to him. ‘He’s the courier I told you about.’

  ‘Always a pleasure to meet a new face in Melchior,’ Derward said warmly, grasping Wynn’s hand. He was thin-faced with pronounced cheekbones and a piercing stare. His tawny face was framed by a stubbly silvered beard and short tousled hair, but his posture and manner hinted at order and discipline.

  ‘Bara tells me you were on the Obsidian,’ he continued in a hushed voice. ‘Terrible business.’

  ‘I think I was,’ Wynn replied hesitantly. ‘I can’t remember much.’

  Derward nodded. ‘Bara explained about your memory loss, and your wish to contact a Kenric arkship. That may be harder than you expect.’

  ‘Why? What have you heard?’

  ‘I travel far around the Cluster, and I hear—’

  A waiter came to pour drinks, and Derward paused until he had passed over them.

  ‘I hear many stories,’ he continued. ‘Most are untrue, but some have truth hidden within them. This last three months I have been trading with the Merreds and the Sinclairs. They talked about a lot of activity on the Draig arkships; higher than usual trades, unusual shipments, unscheduled orbit deviations of their fleet . . .’

  ‘You think the Draig family are behind the attack?’ Bara asked.

  ‘Speculation, that is all,’ Derward said, adding, ‘but informed speculation. And since the attack on the Obsidian there has been a communication blackout with the other Kenric arkships. I fear some may have changed allegiance.’

  ‘We were attacked by the Tephrite,’ Bara said darkly.

  Derward pondered this, scratching at his stubble.

  ‘Who are the Draig family?’ Wynn asked, feeling frustrated.

  ‘Let us talk after the meal, I think I can help to fill in the gaps,’ Derward said, his mood lightening.

  As he spoke there was a rustle of chairs as the other guests stood. Derward and Bara did likewise, and Wynn followed their example as he saw Chancellor Varjo coming to take her seat at the head of the table.

  ‘Please, be seated,’ Chancellor Varjo said with a wave of her hand. ‘Tonight, we have honored guests, so we will speak in the trader’s tongue.’

  Wynn sensed an air of disdain from the other guests, as if this was a language beneath them.

  Chancellor Varjo raised her glass in a toast. ‘To old friends, and new.’

  ‘And to the poor souls lost on the Obsidian,’ Derward added.

  Chancellor Varjo bristled before smiling diplomatically. ‘A dreadful loss,’ she said. ‘You have met Wynn.’

  ‘Yes,’ Derward replied. ‘I am not surprised his mind has blanked out such horrors, but in time I hope his identity will return to him.’

  ‘Our best neurologists have already scanned this young man’s brain. His memories are not lost, Mr Tarkkail, they are suppressed. Deliberately blocked. And not by Wynn; someone did this to him.’

  The waiting bots attended the table, bringing out plates of sizzling hot food that tempted Wynn with their smells. As the guests began to eat, Derward leaned back in his chair, thinking. ‘Deliberately blocked, you say? That does raise some interesting questions.’

  ‘Indeed, it does,’ the Chancellor replied. ‘Motive seems the most pressing question to my mind.’

  ‘Yes. Why would someone want to block this young man’s memories? Who would gain from suppressing his former life? Or course, we are working on the presumption that this was a deliberate act,’ Derward said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s obvious that it is deliberate,’ the Chancellor replied, irritated.

  ‘Really? Is it obvious?’

  Wynn leaned closer. ‘What do you mean?’

  Derward sipped from his drink, composing himself. ‘We know from the Chancellor’s study that your memories have been blocked by some medical procedure. That suggests two possible scenarios. The first is that it was a deliberate action intended to block you – or anyone else for that matter – from accessing your mind. This suggests that there is something to hide there, either from yourself or from others. There could be valuable secrets hidden in that head of yours, Wynn! This is the theory that the Chancellor believes to be true.’

  ‘But what’s the alternative?’ Bara asked. ‘You said there were two scenarios,’

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I.’ Derward smiled, pausing for a moment. ‘The other scenario is that this was an unintentional outcome.’

  Chancellor Vargo tutted, unconvinced. ‘How so?’

  ‘Let me paint a picture: young Wynn here has some minor neurological disorder that needs treatment. The arkship Obsidian is an impressive vessel, I’m told. I’d imagine they have the expertise and equipment to treat his condition. He is prepared for surgery and taken to the operating theatre. The procedure begins, just as the attack on the Obsidian starts.’ Derward turned to Wynn, adding, ‘Forgive me, but the scars on your face are new, correct?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Wynn replied, his hand touching his damaged skin.

  ‘Then perhaps they provide an answer to your problem. During surgery, the attack began. The operating theatre sustained damage, and you were badly injured. The operation was curtailed, leaving you with the memory block, and the scars to your face. Someone must have placed you in a lifeboat and managed to get you to safety.’

  Chancellor Vargo shook her head. ‘The brain is a delicate organ, Mr Tarkkail, I can’t imagine a botched operation would have such a specific outcome.’

  Derward held up his hands. ‘I am not an expert, Chancellor, I am merely putting forward an alternative theory, one that does not require a sinister conspiracy of secrets.’

  ‘No one suggested a conspiracy.’

  ‘Not directly, but that is the ultimate outcome of your theory, is it not? If this was a deliberate act on Wynn’s mind then someone has secrets to hide. Someone doesn’t want Wynn to remember. Someone conspired to hide information from him. And yet, if someone wanted certain information to be kept secret then they could have easily killed him. This mind block is far more elaborate and difficult than simply extinguishing a life. Therefore, if this was not an accident then you are implying a conspiracy of several people: a neurosurgeon and the medical support staff – one does not cut up a brain alone. And a single neurosurgeon would not choose to hide secrets in a patient’s mind, would they? That implies a network of people, a hierarchy where the medical team are the end solution to the problem, not its source. A lot of people would have worked very hard to protect Wynn and the secrets in his head. Is that not the definition of a conspiracy? Do you see how far-fetched this starts to become if we simply extrapolate your supposition? Now, what do you think is the more feasible origin of Wynn’s problem: an accident or a conspiracy?’

  Chancellor Varjo listened, swilling the wine around her glass as she pondered the courier’s words. ‘As always, you speak well, Mr Tarkkail, but you are yet to convince me of your theory.’

  ‘Then we must come back to motive, Chancellor. Who would do this? Who would gain from it and how?’

  ‘The Church?’ Bara suggested.

  Derward sighed, shaking his
head.

  ‘Why not?’ Chancellor Varjo added. ‘It is the sort of thing we know they do.’

  ‘Forgive me, Chancellor, I don’t want to sound rude,’ Derward said, half-smiling. ‘What we have created here is one of the greatest wonders in the entire Cluster. We have protected it with isolation, but sometimes our views suffer for it. We can be . . . provincial in our thinking. We look for monsters and point to the Church, it is an easy presumption that requires little thinking.’

  Wynn sensed the tension around the table as the Chancellor eyed Derward.

  ‘You spend a great deal of time away from Melchior,’ the Chancellor said in a whisper. ‘You travel across the Cluster. You provide a vital service to our society, and for that we are grateful . . .’ She inhaled, her voice becoming stronger. ‘But I think you often forget the sacrifices we have made to preserve this haven of peace. Our society grew out of faith and belief, and that doctrine almost lead to our destruction. We fought to remove its vile teachings from our home and since then we have prospered, in peace and love and understanding. We do not need a god, or infinite gods to make us better people. We do not need the corruption of religion to keep us living in fear. We have grown beyond such things. Does our history make me distrust the Church? Does it make me question their motives? Yes, it does. But does that make me provincial? No, I do not think so.’

  Derward smiled passively. ‘You are right, Chancellor. I spend too long away from our home, and I am grateful to be back.’

  ‘Perhaps you should consider extending your time here.’

  ‘I would love nothing more, but I’m scheduled to leave again in a few days. The arkship Meyer will reach its aphelion soon, and I can get a good price for our fruit. Its orbit is close by.’

  ‘That is a shame.’ Chancellor Varjo noted, her eyes narrowing. ‘At least we will have Bara for a little longer, I hope?’

  Bara nodded. ‘Lexica’s repairs will take some time. Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing my family.’

  ‘Please pass on my regards to them. It has been too long since I saw your parents.’