Jupiter's Halo: Unbroken

by A P Heath

  It didn’t matter though. Nothing mattered in this place.

  He felt like there should be questions. It was as if a thought was trying to surface in his clouded mind. Something powerful, yet shielded from him in a way he knew of but couldn’t understand. It was seeking answers, but the questions eluded him. Aitkin felt the pragmatism sweep over him again, ridding him of the urgency to discover this secret and letting him settle back into the bliss of nothingness.

  The lights were fading to darkness, but as they dimmed colours took their place. They swirled around him, turning him as they passed, leaving him spinning gently.

  Eyes opened, wide with fear and confusion. He let his soothing presence reach out to them and watched them soften as they were enveloped by it.

  The colours continued to move; changing, mingling with one another. He could feel the rhythm within them now. It was perfect, a cadence without a beat to drive it, soft and inviting. He allowed himself to follow where it led, drifting along at peace in a void of beauty.

  Aitkin realised the darkness around him had begun to fill with tiny pinpricks of light.

  Stars.

  The stars were coming out all around him. He continued to follow the music as its pace quickened. It was pulling him along now. He could feel the tug of it, but he didn’t resist.

  He was safe, protected in this place.

  He watched the lights of the stars as he turned lazily among them. He saw supernovas, filling a tiny patch of space with their light before dying to darkness again.

  He saw the dull red of dying stars and the bright burning of the newly formed. It was all a show. Something happening inside his mind, but somehow he knew it was more than his imagination.

  He was seeing the history of these stars. Every birth and death that shaped the universe, all played out before his eyes. It was all real, but his view of it was somehow unreal at the same time. A replay of the events, not their true happening.

  How long had he been here?

  The moments passed without measure. It could be seconds, hours, years, eons. The universe had grown and changed as he watched. Reshaping itself before his eyes.

  Aitkin flew on, faster now. The stars were fading behind him. All ahead was black.

  He felt no fear as he hurtled along. His mind was free of doubt, concern or unease. His actions were without consequence. There was a point of light at the centre of the darkness ahead of him. He let the music lead him to it. It flowed tightly around him, winding itself about and through his form. The spec was growing rapidly, resolving itself into an image.

  The music overlaid words. He could hear them faintly, or their echo. Voices spoke in the darkness, uttering reassurances, speaking of learning, of understanding.

  He could feel their hunger. They wanted to know. He let their desire wash over him, through him.

  Aitkin could feel his speed increasing. He could see the shapes within the centre. There was something familiar there.

  A name was in his head, trying to be seen, to be spoken. Aitkin felt its pressure and let it climb to the surface of his thoughts.

  It was the name of his enemy, his foe, his tormentor.

  A name he should scream, that should bring with it associations of agony and a desperate need for retribution. But as it brushed his lips he felt something else.

  Something almost pleasant. He felt a connection that went beyond the realms of the physical and deep into his being. The image grew further as he watched, resolving itself into a scene he felt he should recognise.

  There were figures; one sitting, one crouched. Their faces were close, as if conspiring or sharing a deep secret.

  The name pressed at his consciousness, the colours swirled, framing the unmoving tableau.

  He was closer now, hanging above the seated figure. The voices still rang out, still so distorted, the words undecipherable.

  The second figure, the one who crouched with his eyes wide and his strange face of flesh and metal fixed with an enraptured expression. He knew the face, knew the man behind it. He could feel his thoughts; confused, admiring, longing.

  Aitkin knew he should feel something himself, but all that pervaded his mind was the comfort of this place. He knew the name.

  Mylus.

  He was looking on himself. But it was not real. He could see his own lips move as his position circled the shaft of light that held his physical body.

  What he was seeing had not happened.

  The man he watched was answering his captors questions. Destroying his honour, disobeying his orders and sacrificing his future in a bargain for respite from the pain.

  That was not Aitkin.

  He thought that death had claimed him. Expected this to be the answers to all the questions he could never ask as a living man.

  But no.

  It was a dream. An illusion born from the cocktail of chemicals pumped into his system and a desire he couldn’t give voice to, that begged him to give up his pride and end his suffering with words.

  He would wake again soon. The pain would continue. There would be no relief.

  So why he did feel this was all going to be okay?

  The image began to fade, the lights and sounds fleeing from him. Aitkin floated in the still darkness of their wake.

  Nothing remained but the name and the new feeling of relation.

  Aitkin was alone, but at the same time not. He was part of something larger, yet immaterial. Something that had protected him, would continue to protect him.

  Something that connected him to Mylus in a way he couldn’t explain.

  Aitkin smiled in the darkness and opened his eyes.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The floor was stained beneath his feet. The deep red had faded to orange and brown as the life blood of Arleese Semeon dried in the heat of the Celebratory Hall.

  The stains were streaked where her body had been moved to the medi-tech’s gurney for transport to the morgue.

  He hadn’t moved from where he’d knelt to hear her final valediction before she died.

  Two words; Arto. Ceres.

  They meant little to him. He knew of Ceres, of course he did. The dwarf planet was the only stable object in the asteroid belt. It housed the mining stations of the Deorum, acting as a base for all operations within the belt.

  Arto he knew also. He could only assume she meant the trade envoy Arto Dilempian. But what did he possibly have to do with Ceres. His position required travel around the solar system, he knew, but the role of trade envoy was to deal with trade. The operation of mining the ice, metals and other elements the human race needed for its endeavours was not within his remit, surely.

  There was a gentle cough behind him.

  Tylin Harten looked up from his reverie, turning to see the impatient faces of two cleaning crew, clearly waiting on his exit so they could clean the floor.

  Technically it was evidence of a crime. Harten felt it should be cordoned, marked inviolate until the identity of the attacker could be uncovered.

  Harten chided himself, not an attacker. An assassin. A killer. Arleese Semeon had not been attacked. Arleese Semeon had been killed.

  The cleaning crew continued to stare. He knew he should leave them to their work. The J-Sec had come and gone. Their officers raked the scene with hand scanners and genetic probes. The evidence had been collected. The body had been removed.

  Nothing remained but the stain.

  If he left it now, if he let the crew clean the floor there would be nothing left to mark where the Ambassador fell.

  Nothing but his memory.

  He hadn’t seen the act itself, only the aftermath. Only her body falling, swathed in blood.

  He hadn’t even seen the attacker. Her killer.

  “Very well.” He said quietly to himself.

  Harten stood, smoothing down the creases in his sheer blue waistcoat.

  “You may proceed.” He said to the cleaning crew as he passed them, making his way from the Celebratory Hall.

&nbs
p; He walked in long sure strides along the processional that led from the Hall and onto the main concourse. Just a few hours earlier this wide walkway was thronged with the guests and dignitaries attending the reception. Now it was empty.

  The borders of the walkway were marked at every five metres by tall pillars holding illumination globes. Their light was unnecessary, out shone by the massive expanse of lighting set a kilometre up, in the inner ceiling of the station’s structure.

  They were decorative, even now during the night cycle they did little but shine on their own exquisitely carved pillars. Harten barley spared them a glance as he walked by.

  To his right the marble walls of the bureaucratic core for Amory rose high above, their bright faces dotted with windows that looked out over the chasm-like drop to the lower floors of this quadrant. To his left the drop was sheer.

  Below the raised processional the main concourse stretched out, leading to habitation units and the lift platforms that transferred citizens of the God’s Belt between the station decks. If he were to walk to his left and stand at the avenue’s edge he could look down almost a full kilometre to the vibrancy of the social quarter.

  Harten headed right, into the wide doors that stood open at the foot of the bureaucratic Core. Carved into its wide lintel were the words of the Ministry; ‘One Race, Among the Stars’. He’d read them many times before. Tonight he kept his head down as he walked.

  Within the Core building were housed the main officers of the Ministry for the Amory quadrant. They oversaw a full quarter of the great station’s population, nearly four billion souls. Harten had an office here.

  He had use of spaces in every quadrant, but the proximity of this location to the ambassadorial suites saw him spend most of his time within its marble halls.

  His office was situated six floors up. His strides brought him quickly to the internal trans-terminal where his ident guaranteed him priority over the majority of other passengers, should he choose to use it.

  Tonight he used it. The lift doors were crowded with the usual mix of administrators, petitioners and general floaters who filled the halls of the Amory Core.

  He pushed them aside as genteelly as his haste would allow. Pressing his hand to the central terminal panel he only had to wait a moment before the doors opened to allow him inside. He stepped inside and turned to face the open doors.

  A woman dressed in too many bright and clashing colours made to follow him, her face set with the pomposity of her own self-importance. Harten raised a warning finger to her face. She stopped, giving him a look of surprised indignation. Harten could see she was about to demand a reason for his behaviour. He could see the words ‘do you know who I am?’ lining up ready to spout from her jowly mouth.

  He waved his finger before her eyes.

  “No one.” He said as the terminal door slid shut, eclipsing the outraged expression warping her face.

  The terminal hummed softly as it raced up its shaft. The lights flashed around him as each floor flew by and the rhythm slowed to a halt. The door whispered open and Harten stepped out into the long corridor that led to his office.

  When he reached the door he found a young man waiting for him in the small antechamber. Harten paused momentarily as their eyes met.

  “Johnston Halpax,” He said.

  “Yes,” Halpax replied as he stood from the slim couch he’d

  been waiting on, “I am the, I mean, I was the Ambassador’s personal aide.”

  “I am aware.” Harten didn’t particularly want to stop and discuss the manner of Arleese Semeon’s death with a member of her ambassadorial staff, especially not one who had clearly been close to her. He was likely going to have to talk at length with her husband in the very near future and he knew he would need patience to deal with the man. His patience was running thin presently and he needed time to put his thoughts in order.

  “Is there something you feel I can help you with?” He didn’t mean to sound so stern, but he hadn’t planned on the interruption. He saw Halpax falter in his reply.

  “I…I just wanted to ask…” His voice trailed off and he looked at the floor.

  Harten could see he was grieving, but he didn’t have time to hold the man’s hand and tell him everything would be alright. The Ambassador’s death would already have been reported to the Deorum Central Command and without close attention such news could be the catalyst that led to war. There were hotheads in the Deorum command that would need soothing and placating. Arleese had always had a talent for doing just that. The irony of the situation was not lost on Harten.

  “Come into my office,” He said a little more kindly. “I can’t spare you a lot of time, but I can pour you a drink.” He opened the door, the lock unclicking automatically at his touch. Halpax followed him inside and stood waiting by the door as if he were waiting for a scolding from his father.

  “Do sit down.” Harten gestured to the chairs that faced his desk. He crossed the office to the cabinet that held his limited collection of beverages.

  “Whiskey will have to do.” He said as he examined the decanters.

  “Thank you, er…”

  “You can call me Under-secretary, Under-secretary Harten,” He saw the defeated look on Halpax’s face, “Or just this once I suppose Tylin will suffice.”

  Halpax accepted the proffered glass with its half measure of

  amber liquid.

  “Thank you, Tylin.” He said in a meek voice.

  Harten squeezed around his desk, an unnecessary and cumbersome marker of his status, and placed himself in the welcome embrace of his large leather bound chair.

  The slate embedded in his desktop was already flashing with urgent messages. He would need to keep this impromptu audience brief.

  “To the Ambassador,” He said, raising his glance in a toast. Halpax followed suit, raising his own glass and whispering the words. Harten watched him put the rim to his lips and tip the full contents down his throat.

  It’s a good thing I only poured a half measure.

  Harten took a sip and placed his drink down carefully.

  “I do not wish to appear unfeeling,” He started carefully.

  “But is there a particular reason for your visit? I have rather a lot to attend to now that, well.” He left the words unspoken.

  Halpax was holding his empty glass in his hands, idly tracing his fingers down the ridges cut into the crystal.

  “They told me you were there when, when…”

  “When the Ambassador was attacked.” Harten finished for him. He thought use of the word ‘murdered’ may push the young man to tears and he didn’t need sobbing in his office right now.

  “Yes.” Halpax said quietly. “I wanted to speak to you, to ask…” He took a breath, obviously trying to calm himself.

  “Was she brave at the end? Was she dignified?”

  Harten was taken aback by the question.

  He’d expected ‘was it quick?’ or ‘did she suffer?’

  He was prepared for questions of that ilk. That was what people wanted to know when those they cared for passed. Bravery and dignity seemed like far lesser concerns.

  “Yes…she was brave.” Was all he could manage.

  He reminded himself he was dealing with the Deorum.

  As much as it pained Harten to see people separate themselves from one another with their factions and petty divisions, sometimes it occurred to him that speaking with members of

  the Deorum really was like encountering another race.

  Honour, pride and face were as, if not more important to them, as the very water and air they needed to live. To imagine his Ambassador dying in disgrace was far more terrifying a prospect to Halpax than to imagine her dying in agony.

  “She was dignified to the end.” Harten added, seeing the relief in the young aide’s face.

  As dignified as one can be when dying in a pool of one’s own blood. He kept the thought private.

  “Thank you, Tylin.” Halpax said.
r />   He placed the glass he had been fondling delicately on to Harten’s wide desk and rose from his seat.

  “I will take up no more of your time.” As he turned to leave the words Arleese had whispered with her last breaths surfaced in Harten’s mind.

  “Johnston, a moment,” He said. The young man stopped at the threshold to the antechamber.

  “The Ambassador’s last words, I was privy enough to hear them.” He could see the anguish plain on Halpax’s face at the thought of her dying benediction.

  “She said ‘Arto’ and ‘Ceres’. Would you happen to know why she would say those words?”

  Halpax’s face creased with consternation.

  “I’m afraid I cannot say why that would be the last thing she said.” He gave Harten a sad little smile and left the office.

  Harten lifted his own glass and sat back as he sipped from it. His slate was still flashing.

  His short-lived respite was at an end. Matters required his attendance.

  He drained the glass and placed it down again, waving his free hand over the slate to bring up its display.

  As the urgent notifications scrolled across its surface he reflected on Halpax’s words.

  Harten had been a politician for many years. He was accustomed to the vagaries of the Deorum and their secretive nature. He was also a great fan of languages and the study of their use and meanings.

  As his schedule filled with meetings and appointments he knew would be tedious, but necessary, he considered how ‘I cannot say why’ was entirely different from ‘I do not know why’.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Mylus.”

  Natasha heard the word, saw the strange tableau, checked the life signs. Aitkin was dead. His heart had stopped, his blood was no longer pumping through his body, in fact much of it was pooling beneath him.

  He was dead. But…

  His eyes were open. He was looking directly into the eyes of his Father and he’d uttered the name.

  “Mylus.”