Nova War

by Gary Gibson

  Sal waved over to the Emissaries. ‘He has protocols,’ he yelled, gesturing at Corso. ‘He can use them to communicate—’

  Corso kicked him hard in the stomach. Sal folded up and hit the floor with an oof. Then Sal somehow seemed to be getting further away, as if Corso himself had somehow become weightless.

  It took a second for it to sink in that one of the Emissaries had stepped forward and grabbed him up in its tentacles.

  Its grip was so tight that he could hardly breathe, the tentacles firmly wrapped around his chest and forearms. Sal stared up at him from the dark shadows of the tank, his face full of terror.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Corso screamed down at him, his fear turning to anger. ‘They’re not going to let any of us live, can’t you understand that? Tell them what I told Hua! Tell them I destroyed the protocols!’

  ‘They want . . .’ Schlosser emitted a long, drawn-out noise like a death-rattle. ‘They want to know if that’s true.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Sal cried, and Corso could see he was actually weeping. ‘They—’

  The tentacles around his chest squeezed painfully and Corso screamed – just as something very like an earthquake slammed the ground away from beneath the Emissary’s feet. The tentacles let go and he tumbled free.

  He didn’t know it yet, but part of the station had just been blown loose.

  We have all failed, Days of Wine and Roses found himself thinking, as he made his own way alone through the abandoned ring. He had failed in his mission yet, as much as he truly loved his Queen, a part of him was compelled to acknowledge that she had done little more than squabble with her sister over the greatest prize ever to fall to the Bandati race.

  That they had failed so spectacularly to exploit the derelict was bad enough; but now, as if to compound the errors of his betters, he was actually helping a member of another species to steal that prize for herself.

  When the ring had started to break up, a short while after his parting of the ways with Dakota, Roses had very nearly died.

  The first powerful wrench had sent him tumbling, hard and fast, and he had barely managed to spread his wings in time to lift himself up above the worst of the ensuing chaos. Dust and debris filled the air, and resolutely failed to settle back to the ground; instead it ricocheted from one side of the segment to the other, as the forces of gravity failed utterly.

  Communications with the Darkening Skies fleet also failed for a short while, so at first he could get no idea what was happening. But, given that the entire ring was now apparently in free fall, it was clear it would no longer be rotating. As soon as his harness comms-unit beeped to indicate that it was active again, he fired through a high-priority location request.

  What came back was not good news. It seemed long-dormant emergency protocols had been engaged, and the ring had now separated from the rest of the station. That meant the ring-segment carrying the derelict, along with Dakota, Hugh Moss and himself, was now drifting inexorably towards the nearby black hole, and would certainly be destroyed within the next few hours.

  For long minutes, Roses searched frantically through a haze of dust and free-floating rubble, before he suddenly spotted Moss hovering over Dakota’s supine form. How Bourdain’s one-time aide had managed to find his way to Ocean’s Deep was a mystery he now very much wanted an answer to.

  Roses hesitated for a moment in thought. With Dakota dead, the threat of her taking the derelict was gone, and yet, without her, there was no way to remove the derelict to safety. And although Dakota herself had been far from clear exactly what Moss himself intended to do with it, Roses knew the assassin well enough to realize how very unpleasant those intentions might be.

  He spread his wings, angling downwards, just in time to see Moss’s jaws begin to open impossibly wide. There was no time left to think, only to act, so he thrust himself onwards through the dust-choked air, pulling the shotgun from his harness at the same time. He flipped the weapon around, wielding it like a club; if he tried firing at Moss, he risked hitting Dakota as well.

  Moss must have noticed something in Dakota’s eyes as she stared up beyond his shoulder. He twisted around suddenly, staring straight up at Roses, still in the process of his rapid descent.

  Just before Roses’ filmsuit could flicker into life, Moss’s hand blurred into motion and white-hot agony seared through one of the Bandati’s wings. Roses slammed helplessly into Moss, crying out in pain as his wing began bleeding from a deep wound.

  Dakota had twisted to one side once she saw Roses shooting like a bullet towards them. Moss’s face was now etched with agony, but he still managed to drag himself out from under the burden of Roses, who was also clearly struggling to recover from the force of his impact.

  Roses’ wings trembled as he grasped weakly at the assorted debris onto which he had collapsed. His shotgun had skidded to one side, and lay just a hand’s reach from Dakota.

  Moss staggered upright and wrenched his knife from the wounded Bandati’s wing. His eyes looked unfocused, and for a second Dakota thought the mercenary might collapse. But then he appeared to recover, and pulled his arm back as if to slash again at the Bandati’s vulnerable wings.

  Dakota reached out for the shotgun and grabbed it without thinking. The weapon had a distinctive flaring barrel, at the sight of which her implants automatically dumped a wealth of relevant information into her short-term memory; the shotgun could fire shot over an extensive area, and was perfectly adapted for a winged species with a history of aerial combat. Her finger felt as if it were being guided instinctively towards the trigger.

  She gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the throbbing ache of the wound in her shoulder, and took careful aim.

  The spray of shot caught Moss halfway across his back; he screeched in anger and pain, and tumbled a short distance away in the zero gravity. Dakota herself was sent crashing into a piece of sharp-edged rubble as the shotgun kicked hard against her shoulder. She screamed as renewed pain lanced through her, and she lay helpless on her side, panting and moaning. When she opened them again, she saw that Roses had pushed himself to his feet, and now stood there clicking quietly to himself.

  She looked around, and realized there was no longer any sign of Moss.

  Gone.

  ‘I nearly couldn’t find you,’ admitted Roses. ‘The ring, it . . .’

  ‘Came apart,’ Dakota finished for him. She tried to stand and nearly collapsed. She had to get the damned knife out. ‘Moss is responsible. How badly injured are you, Roses?’

  ‘I don’t think I can fly without some treatment.’

  ‘Okay’ She nodded. ‘First, you’re going to have to help me get this knife out.’

  ‘But what about Moss?’ Roses replied. ‘You shot him at close quarters, but he still managed to get away.’

  She stared off into the dust-laden haze still choking the air. He’s the closest thing to nigh-on fucking unkillable I’ve ever encountered, she wanted to say.

  ‘I need to get this knife out,’ she repeated. Her skin felt cold and damp. ‘Can you help me with it? I can’t seem to do it on my own.’

  Roses chittered quietly to himself, as if coming to a decision, then he knelt carefully beside her and tentatively touched the haft of the weapon. She bit back a scream, then clutched at the alien’s narrow waist for support as Roses wrapped both of his black fists around the haft and yanked the blade out.

  Dakota screamed till her lungs ached, all too aware how easily she could die out here.

  But it was more important than ever she reach the derelict before Moss did, assuming he hadn’t simply collapsed somewhere nearby. The data imported through her implants was still inconclusive; injured or dying, Moss’s own implants were still doing a good job of keeping him hidden.

  ‘Can you move?’ Roses asked her.

  ‘I think so.’ She struggled back onto her knees. Wincing, she clamped one hand to her shoulder, afraid of bleeding to death, though beginning to suspect that the wound had not been as deep
as she had at first assumed.

  The Bandati agent beside her didn’t look much better. He kept his wings furled close in to his body but, as usual, it was impossible to judge his state of mind. He had retrieved his shotgun once more, and now carefully reinserted it into his harness.

  ‘You saved my life, Miss Merrick,’ the alien observed. ‘This was not to be expected.’

  Dakota affected a weak smile. ‘Sometimes we all just have to watch out for each other, Roses,’ she said. ‘We should get moving now. I’ve seen Moss come back from much, much worse.’

  She looked around carefully. The derelict’s containment facility was closer than she’d realized. Now the dust had started to disperse, she could make it out clearly through the thinning haze.

  Roses came right up beside her, and she leaned on him for support as they started to pick their way through the ruins.

  Suddenly she remembered Corso, still trapped on the Bandati station. She’d promised to help him if she could.

  Corso curled up in a tight ball as an Emissary towered over him where he’d fallen. Its attention was on Sal, however, who had now been dragged out into the open. Schlosser’s body had been yanked from the tubular construction and thrown casually to one side, his lifeless eyes staring straight at Corso as if in accusation.

  The Emissary was trying to push Sal inside the tubular pyramid, while Sal was making a heroic but clearly futile attempt at resisting. The snake-machines twisted greedily, as if desperate for the taste of new flesh.

  The pain seemed to hit him in waves, with brief moments that were almost bearable before being rapidly superseded by peaks of agony where Corso cursed and moaned and even prayed, always aware of how easily one of the Emissaries could crush his skull under one of those giant, splayed feet.

  A fresh tremor ran through the deck and bulkheads, causing one of the wall-mounted tanks to crash down and go thudding up against the motionless form of the injured Emissary. The station trembled yet again, the air filling with a dull roar and the metallic screech of bulkheads under enormous strain.

  Corso stumbled upright, gasping hard from the effort, and began to head towards the Piri Reis, mindless now of both the Emissaries and the robot they had set in place to guard him. The air turned thick with the smell of something burning, and acrid smoke began wafting into the hangar.

  Corso coughed, but kept moving, though he wanted to lie down and sleep so very, very badly.

  He could hardly see the bay extending all around him, as yet more smoke flooded in through conduits and passageways. He stared into the murk, terrified of going in the wrong direction – or wandering straight into one of the Emissaries. As if in response to this thought, an angry trumpeting came from somewhere behind.

  He tripped, fell to his knees, and picked himself up again.

  He just had to keep moving.

  But he felt so cold.

  Another angry bellow sounded, but much closer this time. It was getting hard to breathe, and he couldn’t see further than a couple of metres in any direction, but he felt sure the Piri must be close by.

  Corso heard a regular, mechanical clanking sound as something came running straight towards him. He tried to pick up his pace, then stumbled to a halt, suddenly aware of the bulky mass of an Emissary looming, half-visible, through the churning dust straight ahead.

  As it spotted him, it began bellowing loudly.

  Corso turned to run, only to find himself staring up at the formidable bulk of the guard-machine. He froze in terror, the thud of the Emissary rushing up behind him as ominous as the descent of an executioner’s axe.

  But the machine stepped on past Corso, and launched itself at the Emissary. The alien roared and howled in outraged response.

  Corso stared open-mouthed.

  Dakota?

  He stumbled away from the Emissary as fast as he could. It was down on the ground now, desperately trying to defend itself.

  She’d heard him.

  He searched frantically through the thick haze, convinced the entire station was coming apart around him. For a horrible moment he feared he was completely lost, but then he stumbled upright against the Piri’s hull and began to feel his way around it.

  The lock opened at his approach, as if the ship were expecting him. Maybe it had, after a fashion. He managed to pull himself up and inside the spacecraft with the last of his strength, then waited, panting and gasping, in the confined space as the lock slammed shut behind him. Enveloped in a warm darkness filled with familiar aromas, he half-crawled, half-rolled into the forward cabin.

  He had to first find some way to get the Piri away from the space station, and then he had to get himself straight into a medbox. Easier said than done, he thought, as he lay there shivering. He didn’t know the extent of his injuries, but a deadening numbness was spreading through his arms and legs. That the Piri would probably start leaking atmosphere from its hull-breach as soon as it exited the station was another good argument for getting inside the medbox.

  A darkness even deeper than that filling the Piri began to crowd in on his vision. He tried calling out, to get the Piri’s attention, but all that emerged was a croak.

  A wave of overwhelming fatigue washed over him. All he needed to do was close his eyes, just for a moment, just until he could get the energy together to, to . . .

  Something crashed loudly against the side of the Piri, but Corso didn’t hear it. Outside, two of the Emissaries were dead, and the third was engaged in a desperate struggle for survival with its own security robot.

  And then, finally, there was silence.

  The Piri rocked gently as the section of deck on which it rested began to drop, lowering it into an airlock chamber below the bay.

  Inside the Piri Reis, the effigy – which had lain inert and lifeless in Dakota’s tiny sleeping space – stood up suddenly and moved towards the cabin door. Just as before, the umbilicals linking it to its wall-slot stretched to their limit and brought it to a stop.

  The effigy turned, grabbed the connecting cables in one strong fist, and jerked them free of the sockets that studded its spine. It stumbled on through to the forward cabin, stepping astride Corso’s inert form and gently lifting him up in its arms. It carried him through to the medbox unit, waited as the unit’s lid hissed open, then lowered him into the waiting tangle of probes and catheters that reached up like hungry mouths. They drew Corso down, sliding into his mouth, nose and anus, shredding and dissolving the remnants of his clothing before getting to work on stemming the internal bleeding that would otherwise have killed him in just a few more minutes.

  The medbox’s lid hissed back into place as the effigy watched. It waited there for several moments more, then its head slowly tipped forward, its jaw drooping, the eyes becoming blank and lifeless once again.

  Meanwhile, the outer airlock doors opened, and the station’s own centrifugal force threw the spacecraft far away from the hub. After a few moments the ship’s engines engaged and it began to accelerate, moving with increasing speed as it put distance between itself and the wounded space station.

  Twenty-eight

  There was something ghostly in the way the containment facility responded to their approach. Dakota could feel how weak she was getting, and had to rely more and more on the steadying support of Days of Wine and Roses.

  The Emissaries were clearly losing the battle. They’d sent only a relatively small force, and clearly hadn’t expected to encounter a Shoal coreship or more than one offensive fleet. The Emissary Godkiller itself was now coming under direct attack, most of its assault drones already dead or deactivated.

  ‘Look,’ said Roses urgently. Dakota returned her gaze to the containment facility, the vast wall of the bulkhead rising just behind it. It was decorated in familiar gold-and-azure stripes and embellished with decorative glyphs. They gave it the air of a temple, she decided.

  Now, as they drew closer, it was beginning to split open, down one side.

  Most of the floating debris ha
d finally settled. After leaving the ruined buildings behind, they had picked their way up a flight of wide, shallow steps that led into the facility’s interior. Inside, she could see the derelict was suspended from the ceiling by thousands of flexible cables, while raised platforms accessible by ramps surrounded the craft’s teardrop-shaped hull.

  A wind was picking up, growing louder by the second. The ring-segment was dying, finally coming apart under the colossal stress of being blown away from the main space station.

  There was still no sign of Hugh Moss. Yet instead of triumph, there was only a hollow feeling deep within Dakota’s gut, and even a sense of terrible loss. Though unable to imagine any reasonable alternatives to the path she had chosen, there was still a nagging suspicion that if she’d only had more time to think about things, there might have been a different way for her to get to where she now was – involving fewer deaths, less pain, and considerably less horror.

  Moss had been able to stagger only a short distance away from Dakota and Roses before he had collapsed and blanked out. Medical monitors dotted throughout his body and brain briefly shut down his consciousness, but kept sufficient control of his motor centres to allow his body to drag itself into relative shelter between two huge chunks of shattered masonry.

  And there he slept, while the machinery infusing his flesh, organs and bloodstream anaesthetized him and did its best to repair the very worst of the damage.

  When Moss finally regained consciousness, it was to hear a howling gale that made it immediately clear, even to his drug-addled senses, that the ring-segment’s structural integrity had finally failed. The atmosphere was already venting fast through a thousand hissing gaps and cracks that widened by the second.

  How very close he’d come. He could feel Dakota’s joy radiating out from within her skull. He caught a glimpse through her eyes, of the facility opening up to her like the arms of a long-lost lover, and it was almost as if she were taunting Moss with her triumph.

  He moaned with inhuman longing and despair.