Arkship Prophecy

by Niel Bushnell

  They walked in silence, content in each other’s company. Gofal acknowledged others as they passed by, noting the elevated heart rates as they bowed to him.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ Otto asked quietly.

  ‘The adoration? The curiosity?’

  ‘Yes. It’s everywhere you go.’

  ‘Only on this ship.’

  ‘This ship . . . Doesn’t it get too much for you?’ Otto said, distracted by his thoughts.

  Gofal said nothing.

  Otto shook his head, as if he was dismissing an argument he was having with himself. ‘People talk about you like you’re some sort of god, do you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Gofal said.

  ‘The Prophet. The Voice of the Infinite Gods.’

  ‘I am neither. It is the information I carry within my cerebral matrix that inspires this sort of adulation.’

  ‘Information about the future.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Ahead the corridor curved towards an intersection. They rested at the edge of the concourse, overlooking the library below. Gofal spotted Otto’s mother there, working to catalogue one of the rare pre-Fracture books that they had acquired.

  ‘How can you live your life knowing every detail about the future?’ Otto asked, his eyes focused on the distant wall.

  ‘We have had this conversation many times, Otto.’

  ‘And you remember them all. And you know how many more times we’ll talk about it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but we did not come here to talk about me,’ Gofal said softly. ‘What is it that is bothering you?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine,’ Otto blustered.

  Gofal waited.

  ‘It’s . . . I’ve been doing some research . . .’

  ‘Study is good.’

  Otto shook his head. ‘Not just study, Gofal. I wanted to find out more about the rest of the Cluster, so I tapped into the archive on Icarus.’

  ‘The Church’s mainframe?’ Gofal asked. ‘That is very dangerous.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Gofal, I know what I’m doing. I can hide my signal, and I know how to use encryption.’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  Otto sighed. ‘I don’t know . . . I just wanted to see . . . more!’

  ‘You were born and raised on Icarus,’ Gofal said. ‘Are you missing your life there?’

  Otto shrugged. ‘Not exactly. I just needed to look outside of here. I read about the old solar system, and the way it is now.’

  ‘We have that information here,’ Gofal said flatly.

  ‘I know that! But I just wanted to see. Can you understand that, Gofal? I wanted to see something new.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that.’

  Otto nodded, calm again. ‘I think I want to leave here,’ Otto confessed at last. ‘I’ve lived here for the last thirteen years, it’s time to see something new.’ He sighed, turning to look down at his mother.

  ‘She doesn’t want you to go, does she?’

  Otto shook his head.

  ‘Mothers never want their children to leave them,’ Gofal observed. ‘But she will understand.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Where would you go?’

  Otto shrugged. ‘Anywhere. Everywhere! I just want to see a bit of the Cluster. I want to explore. It’s not like she’ll never see me again, is it?’

  ‘You know I will not divulge information about the future, either in general terms or on an individual level.’

  ‘I know, I know . . . But you could reassure her. Tell her it’ll be okay.’

  Gofal thought for a moment. It was true, he knew the future in great detail, a gift from a communion with the Infinite Gods. But he had learned that the information was not completely accurate, and he had spent much of the last decade trying to discern the mysteries behind the date. He had also learned to compartmentalize his future knowledge so that he was still able to make independent decisions. He had known for the last decade that Otto would leave the Traum in three days’ time, and that they would depart together. He knew where he would go, who he would meet. He knew it all, yet Gofal could still feel surprise, and he was still able to make an impulsive decision.

  ‘I have been thinking of travelling myself,’ Gofal said eventually. ‘I have spent many years in quiet study here, but I still have much to learn about the origins of the Fracture. I think, like you, it is time I looked elsewhere for answers, and there is much for me to discover beyond these walls. If I were to leave here, I would need a companion to assist me on my journey. Perhaps if we were to leave together it would give your mother the reassurance she seeks.’

  Otto frowned in thought, then a broad smile transformed his face. ‘That’s a brilliant idea!’

  ‘I have many of them. That is why people bow to me,’ Gofal said playfully.

  ‘I’ll go talk to her,’ Otto said, his hand tapping Gofal’s shoulder.

  ‘And I will make the arrangements. I think we could leave within two or three days. How does that sound to you?’

  ‘Perfect!’ Otto replied, already running to the stairs that led down to the library.

  Gofal watched him as he found his mother, Gina. She would hate Gofal for suggesting it, but he was sure she would understand, given enough time. He felt content. This was how the future unfolded. But then a wave of sadness clouded his thoughts, knowing that Gina Horst did not have the luxury of time, and she would never see her son alive again.

  BELIEF

  Everything burned, even the air in his lungs was an intense heat. Halstead scrambled away from it, coughing, covering his face, trying to see through the smoke and grit and blood. He felt hands pulling at him, dragging him across the floor. He looked up and saw his royal guard, shouting something at him, but the voice was obscured by a deafening high-pitched ringing.

  ‘The Scribe?’ he asked the nearest soldier. Halstead’s words sounded muffled and faraway.

  ‘The Inquisitors have him,’ the soldier replied, pointing towards the exit. There, hidden behind the protective circle of his personal guard, was the Scribe being escorted away from the explosion. Already the automated fire suppression systems were taming the flames, the extractors drawing the smoke away.

  Halstead staggered towards the Scribe, but the Inquisitors’ partisan weapons barred his way.

  ‘Let him approach,’ the Scribe said, his voice sounding distant over the extinguishers.

  Halstead led him through the exit, letting the bulkhead doors silence the terror. ‘Are you hurt?’

  The Scribe shook his head. ‘My Inquisitors acted quickly. I survived but two of our holy protectors are dead, Halstead. This was the work of one of your people.’

  ‘I cannot believe it, Scribe.’

  ‘Believe it,’ Scribe Mori said icily. ‘The Church has enemies everywhere, even on board your arkship, Halstead. It seems our reconciliation was premature.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ If he had not witnessed this atrocity himself, Halstead would have struggled to believe it was possible. One of his people had given their life for the chance to injure or kill the Scribe, jeopardizing everything they had been working towards. ‘We must still meet, Scribe. This incident cannot get in the way of our progress.’

  ‘Incident?’ the Scribe said, his voice raised. ‘It is more than an incident, Halstead. This was an attempt on my life.’

  ‘My apologies, Scribe, I meant no offence. But please, our meeting must still take place. We’ve come too far!’

  The Scribe stared into his eyes. ‘I trust you alone, Halstead. You have spoken to the Infinite Gods. This puts you apart from other men. If it was anyone else, I would walk away, do you understand? I am taking a grave risk.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Halstead said, relieved.

  ‘You must get to the bottom of this crime, and I must pray for the souls of the fallen. It is not safe here. Our meeting will take place on board the Prophecy, not here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘Two hours
. It is not safe for the Prophecy to remain here for too long. You alone, Halstead. No advisers, no royal guard, just you.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Halstead confirmed.

  ‘Good. We must agree on the Act of Devotion . . . and I need to talk to you about Gofal and Bara.’

  The Scribe nodded to his aides and he was whisked away towards the hanger deck. No doubt he had already summoned one of his shuttles to collect him and take him back to the safety of the Prophecy.

  Prince Halstead found himself alone, his pounding heart slowing. He shivered, feeling cold, uncertain if it was the temperature or because the Scribe had mentioned Halstead’s former wife. Exhaustion overwhelmed him and Halsted felt his legs buckle. He knelt on the blood-soaked floor, coughing. He felt hands supporting him and he let them guide him away, towards the infirmary.

  He must have lost consciousness, Halstead realized as he lay on the hard plastic of a med-scanner. The device hummed gently as it rotated over his head, making tiny adjustments to scan every part of his body. The machine completed its task and retreated towards his stomach, leaving his field of vision clear. About him were the wounded, their injuries being seen to by the medical staff. He saw the crimson stains of blood on the beds, and Halstead felt a fraud for being here. He tried to sit up, but he was so weak. He slumped back, resting to catch his breath.

  ‘Take it easy,’ a voice cautioned him.

  Halstead turned to find Reader Aditsan watching over him. His white beard was spattered with dirt and blood, but he appeared to be unhurt.

  ‘You look older than me now,’ Halstead said feebly.

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ Aditsan retorted. ‘You look like shit.’

  Halstead laughed, closing his eyes, feeling the lure of sleep clawing at his thoughts. He shook it away, focusing on his friend. ‘Are you okay?’

  Aditsan shook his head. ‘I got lucky. The guard in front of me saved my life . . . took the impact of the blast.’ Tears formed in the old man’s eyes, exposing his emotion, and Halstead knew the guard must be dead. Halstead gripped the Reader’s hand, fixing him with a compassionate stare.

  Reader Aditsan nodded solemnly, comforted by Halstead’s silent concern.

  ‘My prince . . .’

  Halstead turned to see Doctor Lund approaching the med-scanner. He smiled pensively, a small respectful bow, then he leaned closer to inspect the results of the scan. The doctor glanced up towards Aditsan.

  The Reader stood slowly, wincing as he straightened his back, and tapped Halstead’s shoulder. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  Doctor Lund waited until Reader Aditsan had walked away, then he touched a control on his palm pad and a dividing wall began to close, cutting them off from the rest of the infirmary. The noise died away, leaving the two men isolated in the small space.

  ‘Well?’ Halstead inquired impatiently.

  ‘Commander Watson had already scheduled you in to see me tomorrow,’ Lund noted. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Apart from the aches and bruises you mean?’

  The doctor nodded, glancing down at the information on his pad.

  ‘Tired,’ Halstead confessed. ‘Tired . . . and confused.’ He shook his head, trying to find the right words. ‘Not confused exactly, but lately, I struggle to hold onto my thoughts. Sometimes everything is clear, then I lose my focus. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Your scan shows that you’re healthy, apart from the injuries you have from the explosion. There’s nothing that won’t heal in a week or two, nothing that I’m concerned about . . .’

  ‘But . . .’ Halstead said.

  The doctor sighed, raising his thick eyebrows. ‘But . . . I did find an imbalance in the electrolyte levels in your brain. It might be the reason you’re feeling unfocused lately.’

  ‘What would cause that?’

  ‘Your liver and kidneys are fine, and I’ve ruled out any blood or heart disease, but it could still be caused by a great many things; dehydration, sleep disorders, substance abuse . . .’ He let the words linger, waiting for a response.

  ‘I don’t use drugs, and I hardly drink,’ Halstead said emphatically.

  Doctor Lund smiled. ‘Very good. Given your position and the current situation, this could just be a symptom of long-term stress.’

  Halstead sighed, closing his eyes. It was true that the growing tension across the Cluster had taken its toll on him. ‘Is that treatable?’

  ‘I can give you medication to alleviate the symptoms, but the underlying issues are harder for a mere doctor to treat.’

  ‘I must find ways to reduce the stress,’ Halstead concluded.

  The doctor nodded. ‘No easy task. I also want you to wear this.’ He placed a thin strap over the prince’s wrist. ‘It’s a medical monitor. It’ll give me real-time data on your condition, and I can track any changes without you having to come see me too often. You might also want to consider some relaxation techniques. I think Reader Aditsan is trained in meditation, is he not?’

  ‘I’ll wear the monitor,’ Halstead replied.

  ‘That’s a start.’

  Halstead sat up, testing his limbs. ‘I’m free to go?’

  Doctor Lund bowed. ‘If you feel well enough.’

  ‘Well enough,’ Halstead said, standing. He walked out of the infirmary, past the injured guards, his mind racing. He had to talk to Valine.

  OUTSIDER

  The bomb had not worked. It had taken months to get everything into place, and then the bomb had not worked. All of her preparation, all of her planning had come to nothing. Valine ground her teeth together, her jaw muscles flexing. Killing Prince Halstead would have been the perfect opportunity for her to take control, and if the Scribe had died as well, all the better. She had plotted for every eventuality, except for failure.

  Jacque Valine poured herself a drink of water, its coldness extinguishing her rage. She knew she must be calm if she was to succeed. She had worked too hard to let this setback stop her. It had taken Halstead years to trust her, always keeping her ringfenced, limiting her need for power. But Valine was patient. She had waited, building Halstead’s confidence in her until, in the last six months, he had finally loosened his grip on her. After a decade as Admiral-of-the-Fleet – Halstead’s second-in-command, the link between the House of Draig and the House of Kenric – she could act. She began with a simple, non-traceable, narcotic, something she could add to the arms of his command chair so that it would find its way into his bloodstream when he touched it. Something to makes his decisions more pliable. It had worked on his half-brother Orcades Draig, and she was certain it would work on Halstead as well.

  But the bomb had not worked. Perhaps it had been a mistake. Perhaps . . .

  Halstead had survived, and he would suspect her now. She would have to point the finger of blame elsewhere. That part was easy enough, but the original problem remained: she could not progress further so long as Halstead lived. She had to find a way of deposing him. Assassination was a simple, blunt tool, but power vacuums always led to revolt. No, she would have to ensure her transition went unchallenged. But first, she had to tidy up her mess.

  Valine dressed, choosing something formal and commandeering. She was forty-three and had kept her athletic figure. She combed her short dark hair, put on a large necklace that formed an arrow in the open collar of her jacket, pointing to the hint of skin under the material. A simple distraction. Even after all this time adrift amongst the wastes, people were driven by the same primal needs. An eye could easily be caught, an attraction made by the promise of more. She checked herself in the mirror, feeling strong. Then, as she was about to leave, she noticed something in her eyes, a childlike fear that had haunted her all her life.

  Valine shivered, the memory of her youth grabbing her by the throat. She saw the little girl she had once been, searching for scraps of food in the dirt until her fingers bled, trying to feed her parents while they wasted away in the toxic heaven of the drug called Gravel. She had come far since tho
se days, fighting to survive, moving through the ranks of the House of Draig until, for a brief time, she had been its leader. Civil war robbed her of her prize, but she had survived, as she always did, finding herself the unexpected ally to Prince Halstead of the House of Kenric. Long before his reign, the Kenric family had traded in Gravel, refining it, selling it to entire arkships full of addicts, getting rich from the misery of families like hers. She had suppressed that knowledge for too long, justifying her position here. But, as she looked in the mirror, she saw that hopeless little girl staring back at her, judging her, and Valine felt her angry grow. She had become comfortable. She had become lazy, settling for second best. But the only safety was in control, and she was not in control of the situation, not as long as Halstead Kenric lived.

  Valine closed her eyes, feeling a tear roll down her cheek. She wiped it away, reaffirming her promise to the little girl who still fought to survive in the dirt and squalor of her past, and turned towards the door.

  As she walked towards the flight deck, Valine checked her pad, confirming that the prince had been discharged from the infirmary. He would call her soon . . .

  As she walked out of the elevator and surveyed the flight deck, her wrist com buzzed. She knew who it would be even before she answered it.

  ‘My prince, you are well?’ she said into the device.

  ‘Meet me in Situation Room,’ Halstead replied, his words clipped.

  She felt the bristle of fear at his voice and fought to suppress such an emotional response. She should not fear him. She was superior to him in every way except rank. Valine was not afraid.

  The Situation Room was a sparse chamber just off the Flight Deck, a meeting space dominated by a long table which sat under a harsh rectangle of light. The edges of the room faded into shadow, focusing her attention on the reflective surface of the table and the man sitting in a chair at its far end. Prince Halstead watched her as she approached the table, his face set in an unreadable expression.

  As she approached him, Valine saw another figure in the shadows behind him. The man walked into the pool of light and took a seat close to the prince. She recognized him immediately.