The Beauty of Destruction

by Gavin G. Smith

  ‘Scab, what are you doing?’ Vic ’faced.

  Questioning, Scab thought but didn’t say.

  ‘Don’t presume to know my mind,’ Scab said, and then pointed at serpentine Oz. ‘I’ve seen your kind before, serpents I mean, though I’ve seen a ship’s AI before as well. You’re just another eating, shitting, murdering race of uplifts who presumably think you’re clever because you managed to reverse engineer obviously user-friendly, advanced technology.’

  ‘We know the truth,’ serpentine Oz said.

  Scab’s sigh was audible. ‘There is no truth,’ Scab said. ‘Just the lies people tell themselves to get through the day.’

  ‘Scab!’ Talia hissed.

  Parts of the massive Lloigor ship had started to move, he could feel it under his feet. The movement reminded him of a serpent’s constricting coils.

  ‘And where are we going to run?’ Scab demanded.

  ‘There is no need to run,’ serpentine Oz said. ‘I am a generous god. I have shown your ship the way, I will release you from my prison.’

  Scab didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all. It was too easy, and easy things never worked out. He almost registered the intrusion warnings from his neunonics before his defences were overwhelmed.

  Scab was surrounded by cold, hard, black vacuum. He was among the stars. Moving at speed through a nebula, he was aware of faint signals, communications between distant particles, a network, a hive mind. The movement of what was unknown space sped up, and he found himself somewhere else. He screamed despite himself as he was plunged into the heart of a star where sentient fire played. Then he was far beneath the ice of a moon, bacteria-like silicon colonies leaching sustenance from faint heat sources. A crystalline virus that could sing, infecting rock, thought forms that created bodies of liquid hydrocarbons, clustered gas colony minds, unnoticed because unlooked for. If they ever had been able to, then the uplifted races could no longer see beyond their own frame of reference.

  It was beautiful. It was the universe that Scab had always wanted to see. It was pure.

  ‘You are the lie,’ Oz said. ‘The tyranny of biology.’

  Scab was sitting in his favourite chair in the lounge/command and control on the Basilisk II. The others were there as well, including Ludwig. His neunonics held no trace of his time in the very real-feeling immersion that the serpentine Oz had presumably uploaded into him. The memory was all in his meat.

  The yacht was flying through the narrowing but still-cavernous structure of the Lloigor ship. Olfactory and visual analysis of the other crewmembers, excepting Ludwig, suggested tension rather than panic. Scab lit up a cigarette, his vision polarising to cope with what looked like a dull red sunset round the next bend in the craft’s vast superstructure. Then, as they rounded the bend, at the end of the huge – but constricting – cavern, he could see what looked like a partial view of a dull red star. The star had black rings of some kind of tech running around it, displays of energy crackling from it. He assumed this was the craft’s power plant, a fading artificial sun.

  Scab ’faced with the Basilisk II. He was less than pleased that Ludwig was flying. The machine was looking for a way out of the huge Lloigor craft, and it was being guided through the shrinking tunnels by some invasive force in the yacht’s systems. The virus looked like a carpet of snakes. It was all but ignoring the yacht’s defences, suborning system after system. There was a sinuous beauty to it, Scab thought. He took a sample, imprisoned one of the constituent snake-like pieces of code in the most secure Pythian software he had, and stored it in his own neunonic memory. He wasn’t quite sure why he did it. It was a huge risk and if/when it got free it could turn him into that which he most feared, a slave, but the virus was subtle, all-pervasive, sinuous, beautiful and powerful.

  On a whim he looked for the Monk’s immersion program, the one she seemed to think was so precious. It had not fallen to the writhing carpet of snakes, yet. He transferred that as well. The virtual environment took up a lot of his neunonic memory. Then Ludwig broke his ’face link with the ship. Scab sat in his chair, exhaling smoke. He could hear warning shouts from the Monk, cries of borderline panic from Talia and Vic. Scab ran a diagnostic to see if he had been infected by it. He hadn’t, as far as he could tell. Then he turned to look at where he knew the bridge drive was. Where his ghost was.

  The Lloigor ship shrank down to a more manageable size and extruded a tunnel of coherent energy wide enough for Ludwig, still battling the Yig virus in the ship’s – and now presumably his own – systems, to fly down, taking them far past the gravity of the black suns. It had been the virus that provided them with the coordinates. It was the virus that would show them the way to the Ubh Blaosc. A tear ran down the side of Scab’s face. The serpents had taken his love’s purity.

  37

  Ubh Blaosc

  Serpentine minds encased in armoured forms, flesh and vessel one and the same, hung dormant in the red clouds of their adopted home, far from the black screaming and the cold. Lightning crackled across thick, pitted, built-up, protective dead skin as muscles unused for millennia flexed. Awareness stretched out across huge distances in the red realm. Níðhöggr, the nagaraja-class behemoth, the idiot god, awakened along with billions of his children. Fires burned in their tails as the largest of the dragons moved. They had heard the mindsong. It was time to enter the pain realm and feed again.

  Britha frowned as she looked between Teardrop, his family, and their pale servant. Both she and Tangwen had been introduced to Raven’s Laughter, Teardrop’s wife, a short woman with laughter lines around dark eyes, her long, grey-streaked hair in a braid running down her back. She did not seem pleased to see either of the ‘mortal’ women. The children – Rain, the eldest, a tall, rangy girl who took after her father; River, the second oldest, who had all the poise and beauty of a noblewoman; and the boy and girl twins, Bear and Sky – had been banished, despite protests, from the main chamber of Teardrop and Raven’s Laughter’s home. Their home bothered Britha. It was the size of a longhall, which made sense if Teardrop was a mormaer among his people, but then his people should share the space. For just the one family it was too much in terms of resources. The chamber looked comfortable enough, smooth, curved, shining wood, furs and skins to rest on; it let in a great deal of light from the Forge shining high above the riverlands. It reminded her a little of a cave, but a very pleasant one.

  ‘He is not a Goidel,’ Britha said of the servant. He had an odd name: Oliver. He was dressed a little like Teardrop had been the first time she had met him, when his head had been swollen with the crystal things that had finally consumed him. Except all of Oliver’s clothes were black and he wore a tall hat with a seemingly superfluous buckle on it. ‘And he is not one of your people.’ Teardrop and his wife exchanged a look. Britha thought they looked a little like children caught doing something naughty.

  ‘I am from a place called Roanoke,’ Oliver said. His accent was unlike anything she had ever heard before, yet he spoke the Goidel tongue. ‘We were colonists from another land.’

  Tangwen opened her mouth to ask a question.

  ‘The Croatan, my people, took Oliver’s people as slaves,’ Teardrop said. ‘It took us a long time to learn that this was not the right thing to do.’

  Britha frowned. There was nothing wrong with taking slaves if their own tribes were not strong enough to protect them. They were well treated and protected by the laws, and most were released after an allotted time, but she had learned a long time ago it was not a good thing to judge another people, regardless of how strange their ways were.

  ‘And yet you still serve?’ Tangwen asked.

  ‘I choose to. We are as free as anyone else, though few of us are warriors and we choose not to engage in the blasphemy of the drui, and the medicine societies,’ said Oliver.

  ‘They have their own gods,’ Teardrop said.

  ‘God,’ Oliver corrected.

  ‘Despite the evidence,’ Raven’s Laughter said, ro
lling her eyes. ‘So. You killed my friend?’ she asked Britha.

  ‘Yes. Is there strife between us?’ Britha asked bluntly. Tangwen tensed slightly, hands close to her weapons. They were standing just in front of the entrance to Teardrop’s home, silhouetted in the Forge’s red twilight. They had not been invited in or offered food and drink. So far, Britha was less than impressed with Raven’s Laughter’s hospitality.

  ‘Picking fights when you’re with child?’ Raven’s Laughter asked.

  ‘She’s not picking the fight,’ Tangwen said.

  ‘I’ll not stay where I’m not welcome,’ Britha said.

  ‘Laughs,’ Teardrop said quietly, not looking at his wife. ‘They were trying to stop the Naga’s mindsong.’ Raven’s Laughter seemed to sag.

  ‘With your permission,’ Oliver said. Raven’s Laughter nodded. ‘I will stop the children listening, and then prepare food. The cured venison, and flat bread with sweet potatoes I think?’ Raven’s Laughter just nodded again. Oliver turned, and Britha took a step back as part of the wall swung open, and he made to move through it.

  ‘Oliver,’ Teardrop said quietly. The servant stopped and turned his head slightly.

  ‘Arm the children?’ Oliver asked. Teardrop nodded. The servant looked to Raven’s Laughter. She hesitated, and then nodded as well. The wall swung shut behind the servant and they heard raised voices and children complaining.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Raven’s Laughter said. Suddenly Britha could see how close to breaking down the woman was. ‘Each time the Naga come they are stronger. We wipe out every last one of the brood, but the next one we meet has learned from the previous one through the mindsong. Lug moves us after each attack so they cannot find us so easily, but it weakens the Forge.’ She turned to her husband. ‘We did this.’ Her hand flew to her mouth and a tear ran from her eye. ‘Excuse me.’ She turned and fled the chamber through one of the curving passages that led deeper into their home. Teardrop looked stricken. There was something about the way she had said it that had made it sound like an accusation.

  ‘You must forgive her,’ Teardrop said. ‘It is unlikely we can fight them off this time.’

  ‘We will stand with you,’ Tangwen said, though Britha could hear just how tired the younger woman was.

  Teardrop smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He sighed. ‘Welcome to my home. Please sit down. We will bring you food and drink. You should rest and then we can talk.’

  Britha sat down on a pile of furs. It was only then, as the tension bled out of her, that she started to realise how tired she was. Her muscles did not ache as they had when she used to fight in battles before Cliodna’s gift, however, before eating the flesh of the Lochlannach, before drinking from the chalice. She reached up to touch her throat.

  Tangwen had collapsed onto the furs of a creature that Britha did not recognise when a more composed Raven’s Laughter bustled back into the chamber, and handed Britha a leather cup full of milk.

  ‘I do not wish to sound ungrateful, but you don’t have anything stronger? Heather ale, perhaps, or uisge beatha?’ Britha asked. Raven’s Laughter frowned as she handed a cup to Tangwen.

  ‘That’s not good for your child,’ Raven’s Laughter admonished. Britha frowned. This was clearly nonsense. Pecht children had been born regardless of how much their mothers had drunk for years, but she decided to respect their odd beliefs. Raven’s Laughter sat down. Teardrop did the same, putting his arm around his wife.

  ‘You have come for your child?’ she asked. Britha nodded. ‘Grainne has her?’

  ‘Yes; she and Sainrith stole my daughter from my womb.’

  ‘They would have stored her in the earth,’ Raven’s Laughter mused.

  Britha struggled to retain her composure. Her stomach had lurched as she had heard the words.

  ‘We cannot steal from the drui,’ Teardrop told his wife. Britha knew that Teardrop was not a timid man, but she was sure that she heard a little fear in his voice.

  ‘We wouldn’t be stealing anything,’ Raven’s Laughter said, irritably. ‘Will Grainne listen to reason?’

  ‘She blames me for the death of Sainrith,’ Britha said. Raven’s Laughter looked at her.

  ‘Fachtna must have loved you a great deal. You paid him well for it.’

  Again Britha had to fight to maintain her composure. She opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again. She deserved Raven’s Laughter’s barbs, and probably worse.

  ‘We will speak to Grainne,’ Teardrop said. ‘Perhaps she will see it differently now …’

  ‘Now that it doesn’t matter any more?’ Raven’s Laughter demanded. ‘Tell me, when you have what you want, what then? Would you go home?’ Britha nodded. ‘You understand that every time we open one of the trods we weaken the Forge that sustains us all?’

  ‘How would she know that?’ Teardrop asked.

  Britha felt a flash of anger at being patronised. She knew that everything had a cost. She had been taught that in the groves. The question was whether or not the benefits outweighed the price.

  ‘You are under no obligation to help us,’ Tangwen said. Britha knew that it was fatigue making the warrior more than a little brittle.

  Raven’s Laughter turned to look at Tangwen. ‘We will help because what they have done is wrong, but even if we are successful then I think all that will happen is you will carry both your children until the Naga turn up and consume us all.’ She turned to look at her husband. ‘But it will keep us busy instead of just sitting here waiting for the inevitable. Which is what I think my husband intended, but if this means I am not with my children at the last then the Talking God himself will not be able to protect him from my wrath.’

  At first they were tiny metal buds against the vast outer skin of the Ubh Blaosc. Huge vessels like straight coils of rope as they started to grow. The children of Lug awoke to life deep within the metal shells of the enormous craft. In each of the mighty vessels tens of thousands of ravens, weapons with minds of their own, the grandchildren of Lug, were born. Their minds connected to their brothers, sisters and their parent craft. They were eager for their short lives and destructive ends. They were conceived in metal wombs hating their serpent enemy.

  Bloody gashes appeared in the night that surrounded the Ubh Blaosc, obscuring the pinpricks of light from distant stars. The maws of the first and mightiest of the dragons appeared, fire between their teeth.

  Teardrop concentrated for a moment. ‘It’s started,’ he said. His face was expressionless, but Britha could see the helplessness in his eyes. She had no idea how it had come to this. It had not been long ago that she had been looking after her tribe’s needs. Now she was to be present at the end of the Otherworld. Raven’s Laughter looked away. The top part of the back of the chariot they were travelling in was clear like water, but solid, though not cold like ice. She could see out into the blue sky they were soaring through. Tangwen had her eyes closed tight. Britha was somehow more able to cope with the flying chariot, perhaps because during the last trip she had taken in one of these craft she had been bleeding to death after the trees had come to life and tried to kill her. This trip was far more pleasant in comparison. She was less than pleased that there didn’t seem to be a charioteer at the other end of the craft’s long neck, however.

  They were circling down towards a familiar-looking wooded, mountainous land. She was tensing, and even though they were travelling towards a grove to see a dryw, she wished she had a spear and not just the chalice-re-forged dirk at her waist. Somehow, here, she felt foolish wearing her black robes.

  They were sinking down past the tops of oak trees. Britha couldn’t shake the feeling that they had shifted aside slightly for the chariot. The back of the vehicle split open. It hadn’t landed, but it remained steady just above the earth.

  Grainne was waiting for them as the Láir Bhán in her horse skull. She was standing on a rock outcrop between the trees, the light of the Forge directly behind her. Everything was set up to awe them. Britha had use
d similar ploys herself.

  ‘Oh, take the skull off, you silly woman!’ Raven’s Laughter snapped, shielding her eyes with her hand. The attempt to awe them didn’t seem to have worked on the Croatan woman. Britha saw Teardrop suppress a smile even as his face became stern.

  ‘Laughs!’ he admonished before turning to Grainne. ‘I apologise for my wife’s behaviour.’

  ‘I am more than capable of apologising for myself when it’s warranted,’ Raven’s Laughter snapped. Britha did not think that the Croatan women liked her very much. She, on the other hand, was growing very fond of Teardrop’s wife.

  ‘I shall overlook this rudeness,’ Grainne said. ‘I can only assume that you have come to deliver the mortal for punishment.’

  ‘She has broken no law,’ Teardrop said. ‘You know this.’

  Grainne turned to walk away.

  ‘You have, though,’ Raven’s Laughter said. Grainne stopped.

  ‘Careful, Croatan. You may not come under my responsibility but we work closely with your medicine societies.’

  ‘You have stolen her child, and have not even seen fit to replace it with a changeling,’ Tangwen said uneasily. The horse’s skull moved as though it was sniffing the air.

  ‘What’s this? Her kin comes calling, and yet a serpent child walks free?’ the drui asked. Raven’s Laughter and Teardrop turned to look at the young warrior.

  ‘My father hid from the evil of his people, he was not as they are.’

  ‘But you were there when the Naga were called …’ Grainne left the accusation unsaid.

  ‘And now you speak with a forked tongue,’ Raven’s Laughter pointed out.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a forked tongue,’ Tangwen muttered.

  ‘You had no right to take my child,’ Britha said. ‘No law gives you the right. I made no agreement, no bargain.’ She pointed at the other drui. ‘I say that I have the right to stand in judgement of you.’