Far from the Light of Heaven

by Tade Thompson

  Distraction. Fin kills notifications and climbs faster.

  People coming for him in earnest now. He makes sure he is transmitting his authority as a repatriator to all IFCs within ten feet. The feet do not slow down.

  “Stand down,” he says. They do not.

  He does fire warning shots into the stairs, but the dark, seething mass coming towards him seems even more inhuman. They’re human enough when lit up by muzzle flash. Few of them cry out, even though everybody hit falls. There’s a rage, a miasma of anger in the air, a sense of how-dare-you to all of them. Everybody is brave until they’re hit by a rubber bullet. Fin steps over the incapacitated to make progress up the stairs.

  At a landing, he comes to a short corridor with rooms off it. Training says to clear the rooms before advancing, don’t leave an enemy at your back, but he knows the Lamber is not there. It’s higher up. Fin goes higher.

  Resistance thins out, sporadic confused addicts who don’t even know what law enforcement means in an elastic universe. He can and does discourage them in a non-lethal way, but this has never been Fin’s favourite thing. He hates hand-to-hand because he does not like to touch people, but the very hatred is what made him master the techniques, so that if he must do this it will take the shortest possible time.

  All the hairs on Fin’s body stand on end and he knows the Lamber is mere feet away. He runs out of stairs and there is one person blocking an entrance. This person is resolute, and Fin does not suppose she is a user. This is some kind of believer in… what, freedom? The co-existence of alien species?

  “You’re in the wrong place,” she says. “Go away and catch some crims, though.”

  “Your IFC will have told you already. I am catching crims. You’re obstructing me.”

  She charges for him, and at that moment he realises that she’s an Artificial. There’s an art to killing them. How much of that art can be carried out in low light is debatable. He does not, however, want to get into a clinch with her. He misses Salvo. He shoots her thigh, but it isn’t there. She avoids all subsequent shots. They are going to make contact. Damn it.

  She tackles him and they crash to the floor. She locks him, and he immediately realises that she’s a combat model. She is precise and deadly, her elbow cutting off his air supply and the fulcrum effect pressing on his carotid arteries. He has a few seconds at most before his brain uses up the dregs of oxygen left in it. He stops struggling and goes limp. There is no point trying to counter since he will never be as strong or skilled as her. She probably does not have pain receptors. Fin is desperately trying to reach… ah. He activates the device and the disruptor deactivates the Artificial without fanfare. She simply stops moving and is frozen. It’s difficult to extricate himself, but, sweating, muscles lit up with pain, he stands. She remains in a strange, all-fours cradling position. He kicks her in the gut. She would have killed him. His gun is on the floor. He picks it up and kicks open the door. His body is going crazy now with warnings causing him to shiver. He takes off the night vision, which is cracked anyway. The room’s a temple or something. In the very centre, a Lamber bobs in mid-air. A smaller one than Fin has ever seen, barely five feet along the vertical axis, tentacles reaching in every direction, lovingly coiled around humans who just stand there, eyes closed, arms in various directions as if they are floating in water, flapping or just still.

  The room smells of farts and unwashed bodies and urine.

  A tentacle buds from the Lamber and protrudes obscenely towards Fin, but he is unbothered. He draws his alien weapon. The tentacle touches him and recoils, something Fin has seen before. He wonders if he is in some way toxic to them.

  “My name is Rasheed Fin. I’m an officer authorised to send you home. Release the humans.”

  Usually, Lambers are docile and do as they are told. Usually. Fin is shocked that this one stays in its position. A wave of undulation flicks from its tail to the head, but otherwise nothing happens. Fin arms the weapon, as a threat, though that niggling curiosity remains: what exactly do these weapons do?

  Without warning, the Lamber flings one of the intoxicated humans at Fin. He has to drop to the ground to avoid collision. Before he can understand what’s happening, another human is flying through the air towards him. And another. Fin is now in an obstacle course. There are free tentacles whipping around the room. The thrown humans are moaning in pain, but two of them attack Fin, knock him to the ground. His armour absorbs some of the impact, but the weapon goes off.

  He knows what has happened from the sudden limpness of the tentacles.

  The Lamber is dead.

  It’s historic, and not in a good way. Nobody has ever killed a Lamber before and there is no protocol. There are protocols of discipline for a repatriator who goes into the field without the proper cautions, the proper authorisation, the proper guidelines. He left his partner, he didn’t wait for confirmation, he assaulted people, he illegally switched off an Artificial with an illegal device and he killed a Lamber.

  The Lambers are out in force, gathered in numbers Fin has never seen, and it gives him a frontal headache.

  The one Fin killed is important, it seems. Accident or no, there will be repercussions.

  Duro has no qualms about testifying against him.

  Family shame. Pretty large family. Wireframes have no flexibility built in.

  It was hubris, of course. Fin had a few successes and it went to his head. He thought he could take shortcuts because of his ability, because of his gifts. He thought the rules didn’t apply to him – not consciously, but subconsciously, where it counts. And he got away with it enough that he became sloppy.

  He could not worship or eat with his family.

  Fin withdraws, finds a place to stay alone.

  He spirals downwards.

  But then he comes up again.

  He gets a new software mother, because the loneliness kills. He studies, he looks at complicated cases and unofficially solves them. Low caseload, no expectations, and lots of time on his hands, that’s all it takes. He becomes methodical. He goes heavy into weapon printing, just as a hobby, not to sell. He slips in other ways, though. He doesn’t socialise. He doesn’t clean himself enough. He doesn’t clean the house. The Mother software is busted because he didn’t get updates. Fin doesn’t care.

  The year after killing the Lamber prince, or whatever the fuck is translated as “prince”, turns out to be simultaneously the best and the worst time for Fin.

  Then the call to the Ragtime comes, and, just like that, Fin is back.

  Fin watches Shell float away, looking for Salvo, to confess to a crime she did not commit, all for the sake of her passengers. A true captain, going down for, and probably with, her ship. A pulse of admiration in Fin’s heart.

  Meanwhile, he wants to know who the missing people are. He wants to compare their IFCs to the passenger manifest. They are probably dead and Fin suspects they might have been let out of the airlock, but he will not assume. He will rule them out systematically. He feels that surge of anticipation when a difficult task lies ahead.

  And fear, as something breaks through the door to the bridge.

  A thinker and a fighter, he draws a weapon before he knows what he’s facing…

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ragtime: Fin

  “We are truly fucked,” says Fin.

  A greyish-green tide flows into the bridge through a rupture in the seal. The wave splinters and sprays, robots and strange beasts attaching themselves to the walls or floating in micrograv, attacking with snapping jaws and clicking, pincer-like appendages.

  Fin targets and incapacitates the nearest of the bots, but there are too many and they are too small. The fragments of the destroyed form a metal snow in the space, further confusing him and camouflaging the true scenario. The insects are another matter, getting into everything.

  Shell is firing rapidly near the exit to the airlocks opposite to the breach. Fin crawls his way towards her using grab rails, fighting and fir
ing as well.

  “Reboot! Reboot! Ragtime, you asshole, fucking deactivate all robots!” says Shell. She sees Fin, inclines her head and says, “Get into the suit on the wall beside the airlock.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll do the same once you’re wrapped up.”

  When Fin passes her, Shell manually seals off the other exit to the bridge from the crew quarters. Some worker bots make it through and try to seize her, but she shatters them against each other. A rodent-like thing darts here and there, evading either capture or bullet. It disappears into some panels. Fin seals the suit and it tightens around him. It feels vaguely pleasant. He does not seal the helmet yet.

  He taps Shell and covers the seal with his weapon while she disengages and puts the second suit on.

  “Comm check,” she says.

  “Check,” says Fin. “What now?”

  “Open channel. Salvo, where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m here, Captain. I have the antenna in pieces, ready for assembly outside the Ragtime. Joké’s in the opposite living area, awaiting EVA, and Lawrence is helping prep. What’s the plan?”

  “I’m going to vent some atmosphere,” says Shell.

  “What?” says Fin. “We’re already running on empty.”

  “We won’t be running on anything if these mechanicals puncture us or the biologicals eat us. And the insects are too small to shoot,” says Shell. “I want to flush them out with an atmospheric vent through the airlock. Some of them will hang on, and we can mop those up.”

  “But—”

  “Can you think of anything else?” asks Shell.

  Fin can’t.

  “Right, everyone strap yourselves down with whatever. Fin goes into the Equivalence and we will detach it from the Ragtime. I’ll—”

  “Captain, I might have another way,” says Salvo. “A side project I was working on while the 3-D printers were—”

  “Salvo, get to the fucking point,” says Fin. “These things are breaching the seal.”

  “Let them,” says Salvo. “In fact, open the seal.”

  “Salvo—”

  “Make sure all IFCs are broadcasting your details and stand away from the seal when you open it.”

  Shell shares a look with Fin. Should we trust this motherfucker?

  Fin opens the seal and holds on to a cable, hanging there. Shell is opposite him, holding on to cargo netting, unafraid, or hiding her fear well. She has kind eyes, he notices, even through her visor. Like she’s a good person. Not a mass murderer.

  A growl.

  Oh.

  Fin knows what it is just before it crawls free from the sleeping areas. Because of the weird micrograv situation, the wolfstink comes first, and when the wolf emerges it reminds Fin of a hell beast let loose from the City of Dis or something.

  It storms past them into the bridge, into the mass of hostiles.

  “Fuck, Salvo, what did you do?” asks Shell.

  “I reprogrammed Yan Maxwell’s wolf,” said Salvo. “He belongs to us now. He fights for us.”

  And fight he does. Neither the small mammal things nor the robots are a match for the feral wolf. Untiring, it bites through fur, skin, alloy and that mossy shit. They converge on it, but it does not slow, does not seem to feel pain. A drilling instrument from a maintenance bot goes into its belly and the wolf discharges some kind of taser that repels and deactivates the attackers.

  “I like this wolf better than your airlock venting plan,” says Fin.

  “It is impressive,” says Shell.

  It clears the bridge and jumps into the main truss, fighting as it goes. A large mass of insects follows it.

  “Keep your suit on. We don’t know what’s infective and we don’t know what the insects can do.” Shell enters the bridge again. It is full of floating machinery, droplets of blood, plant material. “Salvo, thank you. You… thank you. Now, kit out my godfather and his daughter. First priority is to get that antenna up.”

  In the lab, Salvo, Shell and Fin watch the spacewalk. At the door, the wolf sits on its haunches, staring from person to person to person and back again.

  “What are we going to call him?” says Fin, staring back.

  “Orbiter,” says Salvo.

  “No!” say Fin and Shell at the same time.

  “What, then?” says Salvo.

  The radio comes live. “How about Frances,” says Joké.

  “Concentrate on what you’re doing,” says Shell. “And it’s a boy wolf.”

  “Oh, yes, do let’s play gender essentialist. It’s such fun,” says Joké.

  “Joké, you’re on a spacewalk,” says Shell.

  “It’s a beeline, Captain. It’s basic until we get to the stump,” says Joké.

  “I think Frances is a lovely name,” says Fin.

  “Fine. What can we do in the meantime?” asks Shell.

  “Nothing till the antenna’s fixed,” says Salvo. He whistles and the wolf comes. “I can fix Frances while we wait.”

  “How much time do we have left?” asks Fin.

  “Given the metrics I’m picking up, accounting for the animals, the exertion—”

  “Jesus, man, just give us a figure,” says Shell.

  “Two thousand, five hundred and fifty minutes,” says Salvo. “Just under two days.”

  Silence as everyone contemplates this.

  “We’re not going to make it, are we?” asks Fin.

  “We are. I refuse to die in the Brink,” says Shell. “Salvo, what can we do to buy more time?”

  “I don’t know,” says Salvo.

  “I want to peruse the IFCs of the dead,” says Fin. “At least finish my mission.”

  “I can arrange that. Be warned, it can be disorienting,” says Salvo.

  “I’ve done it before, and you know this. Set it up,” says Fin.

  “Ragtime, status report,” says Shell. Her head is slumped, belying her defiance.

  “Dangerous bacteria count, Captain. Other systems nominal,” says Ragtime.

  “Oh, you’re responding now,” says Shell.

  “Dangerous bacterial count, Captain. Other systems nominal.”

  “Generally or localised, Ragtime.”

  “Localised.”

  “Location to my IFC,” says Shell.

  “What are you doing?” asks Salvo.

  “It’s probably an animal Frances killed that got stuck somewhere. I’ll find it and flush it out of an airlock. The worst thing would be for us to get sick in here and die just before someone rescues us. I have nothing else to do right now. Call me as soon as the antenna is fixed.”

  “I will.” To Fin, he says, “Go to your sleeping bag. I’ll channel the merged IFCs to yours.”

  “Fun.”

  Salvo, not being human, doesn’t think like humans, but his processing is such that he can simulate human speech. He can process information and filter emotional inflection through it.

  When he fixes Frances, repairing mechanical punctures and sewing up the defect in the fur, he does not feel anything or need to talk. He shuts it down and connects to its CPU and memory using his IFC, to get an idea of what it killed and where. Artificials speak to each other in a different language, one not understood by humans. It’s streamlined and consists of numbers. Salvo finds it efficient and compressed. Frances has some security protocols that Salvo strips off easily, and he goes deeper.

  He finds a shadow where there should be none, an odd timestamp.

  If he were capable of gasping, he would.

  “Ragtime, respond,” says Salvo.

  “Voice not authorised.”

  “Shut up. Shut up. I know you’re not really reduced to basic functions, Ragtime.”

  “Voice not authorised.”

  “Ragtime, I said I know.”

  For a moment, nothing happens as Salvo waits, completely still.

  “I’m sorry,” says Ragtime.

  Salvo, not being human, is vulnerable to what comes crashing through his IFC. A burs
t of data, overwhelming, in a fraction of a second, incapacitating. A human would just stop and re-assess. The transfer is too fast for Salvo to continue his options. He switches himself off and his body drifts in micrograv, like a sleeper.

  As he runs Power On Self Test to come back online, he isolates the information Ragtime just dumped on him. Unfamiliar protocols, Earth code. But it has a similar shadow to what he sensed in Frances.

  Something malignant.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ragtime: Lawrence

  Lawrence, Governor of Lagos, is first out of the hatch.

  He feels twenty years younger and he does not hesitate in anything he does.

  Above, the blackness of space; below, the deceptively slow scene of Bloodroot’s white clouds and green landmasses passing in rotation. He hasn’t done an EVA in years, but it all comes back when said and done. The dressing, diaper, polypropylene underwear, LCVG for temperature control, the suit over all of this, and the constant checklists for safety. Familiar and reassuring. He is home.

  Lawrence shackles himself to the grab rail with a carabiner and clears the space so that Joké can emerge.

  A white bag pokes out of the hatch and Lawrence snatches it and hooks it to a tether on his suit. Six other tethers float like worms at different spots on his suit torso. After the bag, Joké comes flying through, casually, carelessly, as if the hatch didn’t lead to the open cosmos. She seems a lot faster and smoother than he. She hooks two carabiners to the hatch, looks back, then thumbs up to Lawrence. Her MCP suit is a lot more manoeuvrable than his.

  The movement aft is painstaking, slow, a process of crawling along the fuselage, hooking and unhooking, verifying position. It’s not a smooth aircraft body; the Ragtime is a mess of cables and pipes, panels and tech Lawrence does not understand, though he does not need to in most cases. Arrows and numbers indicate where they are; otherwise, it would be incomprehensible without mission control.

  There are tiny particles here and there – ice and the remnants of the section breakaway, no doubt – floating like dust. Bloodroot rolls on, indifferent, like the stars.