Ragnarok 03 - Resonance

by John Meaney

  They’re so fast.

  And used to working together.

  —and glimpsing the complex orbital that was Vachss Station, so vulnerable to such a sudden attack from nowhere—

  Look out!

  —as the trailing edge of their left wing burned with pain, but they tumbled into a desperate escape trajectory, firing bursts designed to make the bastards think and hesitate, and Piet-and-ship were scared that this was the end and not for themselves alone—

  There.

  Yes. Got it.

  —but they screamed through a hard turn, letting loose with everything they had and causing no damage but getting the effect they wanted, both Zajinets coming round to deliver the final weapons burst, but they were not going to succeed because the bronze-and-silver ship streaking this way was moving very fast indeed and its weapons were—

  Got one.

  —powerful, tearing one of the Zajinets apart in a tenth of a second, and clipping the other as it turned away and white light blazed—

  Give chase?

  No, we can’t.

  All right.

  —and the Pilot ship hung there as if hesitating, deciding whether to follow the survivor into mu-space, then gliding around to come close to Piet-and-ship.

  **You’re wounded.**

  **Yes, but treatable.**

  **Agreed, and you should be in Labyrinth.**

  Vachss Station, their destination, lay before Piet-and-ship.

  **We have cargo to deliver.**

  **All right, give me one moment.**

  After a few seconds, as Piet partially disengaged from his ship, an ordinary realspace comms holo appeared in the control cabin.

  ‘I’m Ibrahim al-Khalid, in Vachss Station Control,’ said the morose-looking Pilot in the image. ‘You have our gratitude, Pilot. Jed Goran tells me you want to deliver cargo.’

  ‘Jed Goran? He’s in the other ship?’

  Something very sad and proud was involved in al-Khalid’s expression. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Then I’ve something for him, too.’

  ‘He’s heading back to Labyrinth. Fly together, and you can give it to him there. If you like, to save time, you can eject the rest of the cargo from your hold, and I’ll come out with a shuttle team to pick the stuff up. The containers are tagged with long-wave markers?’

  ‘Standard encoding.’

  ‘Good enough. And . . . That was well fought. Thanks again, Pilot.’

  Piet blew out a long breath.

  ‘Any time,’ he said, and closed the comm session.

  I told you that you’re all right.

  Only because of you.

  Closing his eyes, Piet re-entered conjunction trance, as he-and-ship opened their dorsal surface and let go of their cargo. As the containers tumbled free, ship-and-Piet dropped away and sealed up their hull once more.

  **Ready, Pilot Goran.**

  **With me then, Pilot Gunnarsson.**

  They performed the mu-space transition quickly, just in case, but no Zajinets were lying in wait: the golden void was clear. So they chose an easy geodesic, and both Pilots-and-ships turned in synchrony, matching trajectory.

  We’ll be OK.

  Yes, we will.

  Flying easily together, heading for Labyrinth.

  Inside the great docking bay, small self-guided tenders clustered around Piet Gunnarsson’s wounded ship while he disembarked. Before stepping onto the dock’s walkway, he went down on one knee atop his ship’s wing and pressed his palm against her warm soft surface, while his other arm clasped a package against his torso.

  They’ll look after you. Heal up.

  Yes. Come soon.

  Of course I will.

  From the walkway, he watched as the tenders gently shepherded his wonderful ship into a wide white tunnel leading deep into Ascension Annexe, where Labyrinth could bring all her healing powers to bear. She would be all right, his ship.

  ‘You saved Vachss Station.’ Pilot Goran, from the bronze-and-silver ship, had a muscular face and an easy grin. ‘Well done, Pilot Gunnarrsson.’

  ‘Call me Piet.’

  ‘And I’m Jed.’

  The two Pilots shook hands. Then Piet held out the package.

  ‘I was supposed to give this to you on the orbital.’

  ‘Well . . . A personal delivery?’ Jed pressed the outer wrapping to display the manifest data. ‘Ah.’

  It read Sender: Clara James.

  Piet said, ‘Shall I leave you to—?’

  ‘No, let me unwrap this, and then we’ll go for a drink.’

  ‘If you like.’

  The wrapping unfolded at Jed’s command. Inside was a box containing a small medal, shaped like a knot formed of Möbius strips, on a chain. And a holo note that read: If you’re going to dash around saving worlds, you’d better marry me. –C

  Jed looked as if someone had just dug him in the solar plexus.

  ‘Er . . .’ he said.

  ‘Wow,’ said Piet. ‘Are you going to say yes?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Hell, yeah.’

  ‘I’d better you leave you to it, then.’

  ‘No . . .’ Jed stopped with the medal and chain in his fist. ‘I was going to buy you a drink and tell everyone what a hero you are.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘But people think—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they think,’ said Piet quietly, ‘so long as they’re wrong.’

  Jed stared at him, then activated his tu-ring. It swapped ident-codes with Piet’s tu-ring.

  ‘Let’s meet up later,’ said Jed. ‘For a private celebration. Good enough?’

  ‘More than.’ Piet pointed at the medal and holo. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Yeah. Thank you.’

  They nodded at each other then turned away, each summoning a fastpath rotation.

  The Admiralty debriefing report was copied to Clara, and displayed as a her-eyes-only virtual holo while Max and the others continued the conference. Anything tagged Jed Goran was for her immediate attention, and she grinned as she realised he was back. Then her lean, endurance-athlete’s face and body tightened as she read through the annotations and watched holo footage of ship-to-ship combat against Zajinets.

  ‘Clara?’ said Max. ‘Are you with us?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ She gestured, and the virtual holo became a real image above the conference table. ‘Just in from Vachss Station. Seems Piet Gunnarsson has redeemed himself.’

  They watched, the seven people in the room, and nodded at the destruction of two Zajinet vessels.

  ‘There was only one Pilot at the orbital?’ asked Bob Weng, one of Admiral Asai’s strategy aides. ‘Doesn’t it have a Sanctuary?’

  ‘With one permanent resident and one semi-permanent,’ said Clara. ‘But they’re Shipless, Draper for the usual reason, and al-Khalid because his ship died. Some of you might remember the incident.’

  People shivered. For a Pilot to live on past the death of their ship—

  ‘Poor bastard,’ said Clayton.

  ‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Weng. ‘How can he face waking up in the mornings?’

  ‘Or going to sleep and dreaming.’

  ‘Hell.’

  There was a silence which took a few moments to shake off.

  ‘We need to spread out a protective net,’ said Copeland, who was Weng’s opposite number on Admiral Zajac’s staff. ‘The question is, can we assume that they’ll continue to attack in small numbers, two or three vessels at a time?’

  Max flattened his big hands against the tabletop.

  ‘The longer we’re occupied with Zajinets,’ he said, ‘the less we know about Schenck and what he’s up to.’

  Everyone in the room was cleared for knowledge of the renegade base near the realspace galactic centre. Also for intelligence regarding the darkness, to the extent they knew anything at all, and of the strategists’ best guesses as to its intentions.

  ‘You think the renegades will mount an attack fleet?’ s
aid Clayton. ‘On what target?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Max. ‘And my ignorance is what scares me.’

  He gestured, and Clara’s holo report disappeared, replaced by the familiar view of the galactic core and the shining needle, a thousand lightyears long, emanating from the centre.

  ‘I’m guessing—’ He started, then coughed wetly.

  ‘Max?’ Clara was out of her seat.

  Clayton was already sending an emergency signal.

  ‘Medics,’ he said. ‘We need medics.’

  Bending forward, Max’s fists were in his lap, fighting the pain. ‘Black. Stone.’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ said Clara. ‘Medics are— Here.’

  The air rippled apart, and three uniformed medics stepped into the conference room. The rotation held open for an autodoc to slide out, its carapace already opening.

  ‘Positive . . . Vetting,’ said Max.

  ‘Using Haxigoji.’ Clayton took hold of Max’s shoulder. ‘Get Roger to train them up, right?’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘Everyone, we need room.’ The lead medic moved Clayton aside. ‘All right, Commodore. We’re with you.’

  Golden sparks blossomed all around Max, interacting with his normal medical femtocytes that should have sent warning signals of any impending medical catastrophe. Perhaps he had spent too long working inside security-sealed rooms from which all comms were blocked; perhaps it was that simple.

  Pavel Karelin rotated into the room, his face pale. ‘Commodore . . .’

  The medics were bundling Max into the autodoc, which after a few moments sealed up.

  ‘Casevac now,’ said the lead medic. ‘Back off, everyone.’

  ‘I’ll handle security,’ said Clayton. ‘A watch team at all times.’

  To guard Max, he meant.

  ‘Do it,’ said Pavel.

  Clayton disappeared a second before the medics, and the autodoc that looked so like a coffin, rotated out to a secure layer of the Med Centre. After the rush, everything transitioned to stillness; then everybody moved and talked at once.

  ‘All right, listen up,’ said Pavel. ‘I’m Deputy Director pro tem, so let’s settle down and keep things running. And don’t worry, I want Max back in charge as soon as possible. I’m sure you do, too.’

  But Clara thought of all the massive strain Max had been under for so long: it wasn’t just the torture he underwent while a prisoner; it was the years of being the only one who understood the threat the darkness represented inside Labyrinth, of identifying first Schenck and then the most powerful of his co-conspirators, slowly and secretly working without ever knowing whether he had just confided in an agent of the darkness few people could sense at all, and then only dimly.

  Apart from Roger . . . and possibly every native inhabitant of Vijaya.

  It took hours to get things organised, to respond to the shock of Max’s collapse. When Clara finally fastpath-rotated back to her apartment and Jed was standing there grinning, saying, ‘The answer is yes, my love. Definitely yes,’ there was a long, dislocated pause during which she did not know what he was talking about. Then it came to her, and for the first time in years she came close to crying as she kissed the man she loved.

  ‘Bloody right it is,’ she told him. ‘There’s no escape for you.’

  They clasped each other hard.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  EARTH, 793 AD

  Chill wolf of the willow was the storm-wind’s name, and Fenrisulfr snarled in the face of it from his place on the prow-beast: the longboat which was leading the raiding squadron across the grey, chopping seas; and it had not escaped the grim-humoured warriors on board that their leader’s name meant he was a hell-wolf. His lieutenant, Brökkr, rode the second long-boat, and that was good. For a while after Byzantium, Brökkr had commanded his own fighters; now he had rejoined Fenrisulfr along with his men, on the promise of blood and gold and danger.

  Sometimes Fenrisulfr wished he could employ rhetoric and magic as that bastard poet Stígr had so long ago, using words to control men’s minds. But Fenrisulfr’s actions and decisions, and his ability to control berserkergangr, would have to suffice, as they had since he slew the reaver chief Magnús, fifteen summers before.

  ‘Do they have good warriors over there?’ Thollákr shouted against the wind.

  ‘There are people who can fight. There always are.’

  ‘Good, then.’

  Fenrisulfr half-smiled against hard wind and spume. ‘You know why we have so many water kennings for blood? Battle sea, sea of spears, current of the sword? Spears’ torrent?’

  Thóllakr’s hair whipped in the wind as he shook his head.

  ‘No, Chief.’

  ‘Because we swim in it or drown!’

  A grin was Thóllakr’s answer, along with: ‘And it makes you puke if you drink it.’

  Fenrisulfr laughed, sea air deep in his lungs.

  It was a heady pleasure to be alive and the bringer of death, never the recipient – until the Norns betrayed you, as they would in the end.

  Finally, the shadow of land grew amid the grey blend of sea and sky, a promontory atop which stood a stone fort-like structure; except that if they had been told the truth, it was occupied by holy men, not warriors. Something other than the icy wind caused Fenrisulfr’s innards to chill, and by the time they beached the prow-beast on shingle, the recognition was strong, despite the gloom enveloping the world.

  I was here before.

  That other day, long past, when he had been transported by troll magic: bright sky and summer sun had shone as he slew the imprisoned troll-spirit. It had glowed blue, and was comrade to the red spirit that had carried Fenrisulfr – then simply Ulfr – across a great distance in the space be tween heartbeats. Somehow Stígr had been making use of the imprisoned troll’s magic, using it to transport himself at will.

  Ulfr had removed that power by killing the captive, using the crystal-headed spear; but had failed to destroy his real enemy, that bastard Stígr, before the ‘good’ troll-spirit snatched Ulfr home.

  ‘They call it Holy Island,’ Thóllakr told Ivarr.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ári says they pray to a trinity, meaning Óthinn, Baldr and Loki, except they use different names.’

  ‘They’ll be praying while they shit themselves, soon as they catch sight of us.’

  Several warriors walked downwind to piss, or squat down shielded by their cloaks, while they waited for the other long-boats to beach. Finally, when the whole band was gathered, Egil Blood-Sword and Bjartr Red-Tooth called them to order.

  The two chiefs were more important than Fenrisulfr, if not as feared.

  ‘We take only tribute here, remember,’ said Egil. ‘And a small one at that. Keep your weapons sheathed, men. And not inside the local maidens, Davith.’

  ‘Or the sheep,’ said someone. ‘Or pigs.’

  ‘Why, did your mother sail with us?’

  Chuckles and jeers were almost drowned by storm-wind.

  ‘The nicer we are to the locals,’ said Bjartr, ‘the fewer fighters need to remain here on guard, while we make a little incursion on foot.’

  Later they would hug the coast until they found a suitable river inlet, and make use of the prow-beasts’ shallow draughts. Riverside settlements were rarely prepared for the sight of sea-going vessels suddenly appearing beside them: normal ships would smash their keels if they attempted to sail inland; but when raiders went a-Viking, they slipped deep into the country at will.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ added Bjartr. ‘We’ll all see Axe-Time soon enough.’

  ‘And Shrieking when Davith gets his cock out.’

  There was laughter at the punning, for Axe-Time and Shrieking were two of the All-Father’s Death Choosers who might swoop down to take their spirits back to Valhöll, where they would train and fight among the Einherjar, and never die again before the final battle that was Ragnarökkr.

  Orange flame-light showed at the holy men’s tower.<
br />
  ‘They’ve seen us,’ said Fenrisulfr.

  ‘I thought I smelled someone shitting themselves,’ said Ivarr.

  ‘That was me,’ Fenrisulfr told him. ‘Thinking about Davith getting his weapon ready.’

  Chuckles accompanied the loosening of blades, the hitching of hammers and axes, the hefting of spears by their balance points, the rolling of shoulders and jogging on the spot, shingles crunching, to get ready.

  The way to negotiate was to be ready for slaughter.

  *

  There was a tonsured holy man – chief of the holy men – and a village leader who began by saying they wanted peace, and were prepared to pay tribute to such mighty men of the sword. Ivarr and Thóllakr looked at Davith and smirked, while others tried to keep a straight face. Chief Egil and Bjartr glanced at each other and nodded, then turned to Fenrisulfr who did likewise.

  ‘Your terms are well offered,’ he said to the holy man, who spoke the Tongue. ‘We accept them warmly.’

  Many of the raiders possessed a smattering of languages, but in matters like this it was best for someone fluent to translate. Fenrisulfr knew enough of the local tongue to understand that the holy man translated correctly, while the relief on the village leader’s face was answer enough.

  As the tribute arrived, Egil directed some of his men to take it to the longboats, rather than make the locals carry it all the way. Fenrisulfr understood the reasoning: allowing the locals to see the vessels up close would lessen their fear; best that the prow-beasts remain like waiting dragons, redolent with danger.

  All went well until Thóllakr cut himself on an unsheathed blade: a gift, part of the tribute that he should have known how to handle properly. Fenrisulfr felt like killing him on the spot, for showing such ineptitude; but dissent within a force is also a sign of weakness. Fenrisulfr forced his fury down.